The Graveyard Book

I'm on a Neil Gaiman kick, so here's a series of videos of him reading the entirety of his wonderful new novel "The Graveyard Book." It's not many authors that are as good at reading their works as they are at writing them...

The Dweller in High Places

For fans of Susanna Clarke, here's a hard-to-find audio short story of hers. The Dweller in High Places

the last full measure

Today at the end of class Dr. Birzer took us out to the Civil War memorial in between Lane and Kendall. Despite the sunshine, it seemed very solemn; Dr. Birzer's voice reverberated between the two buildings. He told us about the volunteers on both sides, that they made up the majorities of both the armies. And then he told us about Hillsdale's role in the war. We'd already heard about the faculty and administration of Hillsdale storming up to Jackson in 1854 and effectively forming the Republican Party. But I hadn't heard what happened here, on this very campus in April of 1861. The college wasn't much smaller back then, with a student body of about 1000. When Lincoln issued the call for troops in mid April, Hillsdale responded like no other college in the country. 500 of her boys signed up then and there. Half the student body, nearly every male student on campus, was gone within days. Not even West Point had a comparable percentage of volunteers. Those Hillsdale Students made their impact. At the battle of Gettysburg our regiment, the 24th Michigan, deliberately put themselves in harm's way at the low ground, braving the lines of Confederate soldiers to give the Union army time to take the high ground. In the first twenty minutes of that famed battle, that regiment had suffered over 80% casualties, and 400 Hillsdale men were dead. They had secured the high ground. Dr Birzer told us that no matter how long he taught at Hillsdale, he would never have the connection to those dead men that we did. We, as students at this institution, share an unbreakable bond with them. "That's your tradition. That's your legacy. Think about that when you decide what you're going to major in or what career you'll pursue. Ask yourself why they volunteered and what they sacrificed themselves for. And then ask yourself what you're living for." After ten days of spring break, I can't imagine a more intense "welcome back to Hillsdale".

Fleet Foxes and Bon Iver

Thanks to Sophie at The Store Stump for this. La Blogotheque has an astounding collection of beautifully shot live performances of great new bands, all shot specifically for the web, and set in natural, often on-the-street settings. Amazing stuff. It great to watch The Shins wander the streets of Paris, and start playing their stuff for a random group of people at an open-air cafe. Check it out, especially the videos of two of my favorite new bands, Fleet Foxes and Bon Iver. Take-Away Shows

Joy

There are moments in life where I am so absolutely, giddily ecstatic that I can't help but run around with a huge silly grin on my face. For instance: I am working on my paper about de Tocqueville and Andrew Jackson, about the spirit of democracy as opposed to, shall we say, responsible republicanism, and I think something snapped inside. But in a good way! I mean, there's the Western Heritage Reader lying in front of me, there's the American Heritage Reader next to it, and everything Russell Kirk wrote about America being the culmination of Jerusalem, Athens, Rome, and London bowled me over. I had just reread the passages from Plato's Republic and Aristotle's Politics, and then immersed myself in de Tocqueville. The more I read him, the cooler he gets. And now I'm seeing all sorts of parallels between republicanism and Catholicism and democracy and Protestantism. So before I burst a blood vessel or started dancing around the room, I grabbed the music I had wisely stashed in my backpack and took off running to Howard. I burst out the doors of Kendall and almost immediately started laughing, full of what I think Dr. Birzer calls the "fire that animates". It was cold and clear, snow was falling in the most picturesque manner possible, and the clouds were "half revealing, half concealing" a full and luminous moon. I think it helped that I was listening to Radiohead; or at least, it leant even more atmosphere to the situation. I spent some energy singing plainsong and slamming out Chopin Nocturnes, and then danced back up the hill. (Literally, I kid you not) This is the best I can do to explain it all. I once heard that the Japanese had no way to say "I love you." I don't know what they said instead, but "I love you" didn't enter their language until after considerable contact with Westerners. Since coming to Hillsdale, I feel like I'm learning more and more about what makes this country what it is, and de Tocqueville, the Federalist Papers, the Declaration of Independence, coupled with everything we covered in Western Hertiage, provided a new rush of understanding. I have always been one to feel deeply and am intensely emotional; but finding the words to express those feelings can be a challenge. Hillsdale is supplying the vocabulary. It is as if after years of stretching out my arms to America with shining arms and a full heart I have learned how to say "I love you." Now I have a paper to write.

perception

"I am so coarse, the things the poets see Are obstinately invisible to me." So said C. S. Lewis, when he reflected in his poem "A Confession" that he was having a hard time appreciating the more modern sort of poetry that for its own inscrutable reasons looked at a sunset and saw "a patient etherized upon a table". I'm inexpressibly relieved to find someone I admire so much in the same proverbial boat as myself. For years I've tried to tried to grasp the appeal of poets such as T. S. Eliot or W. H. Auden without succeeding much at all. I think my problem is that I react to beauty almost entirely emotionally, without much careful ratiocination. It could be the Celtic strain in my blood manifesting in a wilder connection to natural beauty; something that to me is warmer and more human. A song rather than a thought? I don't exactly understand Yeats or Hopkins, but they produce an intense reaction for me that the coldly cerebral work of Eliot doesn't even begin to approach. I'm fairly certain this reveals an intellectual weakness in myself, and have to admit that I often wish I were less passionate and more rational. But for now I think I will continue to demonstrate such Irish tendencies as running barefoot in the wet grass and glorying in the beauty of God's Creation without being able to categorize or explain it. My mind may halt and retreat from The Wasteland; but my soul, soaked in heroic myth and the love of a native land, understands wherefore a terrible beauty is born.

Screams in the Night

Over fifty years ago, Whittaker Chambers disclosed the terrifyingly real potentiality of a Communist takeover in the United States in his immortal testimony Witness. In this work Chambers described the feelings of one former Communist who defected because while living in Moscow "one night he heard screams." This statement has been on my mind a lot recently. My trip to Washington D.C. to mourn the Roe v. Wade decision in the March for Life was not uplifting, since no matter how many people march on the Courthouse every year, progress seems to be negligent if any. This past election, together with the looming menace of the Freedom of Choice Act is like a devilish mockery of any attempt to hinder or stop legalized abortion. Because while we struggle in vain with signs and bumper stickers, speeches and letters, and tirades on the blogosphere, who has not heard those screams? This time it isn't families torn apart by the KGB. It isn't the secretive terror of interrogations and midnight arrests, nameless graves and hopeless lives. It is the voice of the voiceless, crying out in endless agony. It is the silent condemnation of their tiny bodies lying in back alleys and dumpsters. The blood stained earth prosecutes our inaction. Thousands of times a day the inconvenient among us are torn to pieces lest their existence threaten society's comfort. Those screams are deafening me as I try to carry out my daily routine. Screams of children who are never permitted to beg for their lives, though God knows they would have if they only had the words. Human history is consistent in its ability to find new and appalling ways to mistreat anyone who is weaker or less competent to defend himself. But how can we rest easy in our beds knowing that the Satanic culmination of man's inhumanity to man is legal in a country which should be the world's last best hope? May God grant our prayers and unstop the ears of those who will not hear, and may America soon experience the true silence of a quiet conscience.