From Jefferson’s fascination with Old English to the indefatigability of Cajun ring-jousters, American medievalism has long enjoyed a reputation as (in the words of one prominent scholar) “a tough little sister just looking for Mister Right on the wrong side of town.” While the “Quid Plura?” kobolds and I track down traces of medievalism far afield from the D.C. area, please partake of these medieval-ish and literary links from the cleverest of souls.
Steve Donoghue reads Froissart’s Chronicles and St. Augustine’s Confessions.
Nancy Marie Brown’s A Good Horse Has No Color: Searching Iceland for the Perfect Horse enjoys new life as an e-book.
Dame Nora ekes out a medieval flower.
Ephemeral New York spies grotesques on 181st Street.
Makers of the Middle Ages is now available in print.
Steve Muhlberger alerts us to a book about a Tudor minstrel.
Julie K. Rose is reading from her novel Oleanna at Norway Day in San Francisco.
Is Edward Bulwer-Lytton mocked for all the wrong reasons?
Bill Peschel uses poet Rupert Brooke to rewrite Maslow’s hierarchy of needs.
Dylan pens “Ode 2.0,” a charmingly honest poem about social media.
Anna Tambour, connoisseuse of strange fruit, cultivates French crabs.
Benjamin Buchholz quaffs a cup of Khan.
Hats & Rabbits wonders what a science fiction author sees that others don’t.
Steven Hart want to give you the Kindle edition of his well-reviewed New Jersey crime novel.
Writer Beware warily eyes the restored “Poetry.com.”
Kevin at Interpolations is glad he’s no Middlemarch scholar.
First Known When Lost questions poems about poems.
“April,” said Edna St. Vincent Millay, “comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.” In the same giddy spirit, here’s a florilegium of sweet-smelling links.
First Known When Lost sees clouds in poems, poems in clouds.
Julie K. Rose, author of Oleanna, looks at meadows, trysts, and Norwegian identity.
Witan Press, publisher of scholarly medieval e-books, seeks a virtual intern.
Bill Peschel visits Cupboard Maker Books and tells parents to let their kids self-publish.
Prof Mondo spots a songwriter “at the intersection of Bacchan depravity and commerce.”
George reads In Plato’s Cave, an academic memoir.
Who deserves the Arthur C. Clarke Award? This year, there’s controversy.
Jake Seliger asks: Are you more than a consumer?
Hats & Rabbits pens a parable.
Dr. Beachcombing hails a handlist of adult changelings.
Benjamin Buchholz takes us to Oman, where they still build dhows by hand.
Y.S. Fing reviews a book about the man who invented Ignatius Reilly.
PeteLit finds Beatrix Potter’s bunnies bred from a letter.
Lingwë dabbles in absinthe.
Steve Donoghue, man of a million interests, introduces you to opera.
The Book Haven calls for an end to Orwellian “wars.”
Writer Beware! tells you why small publishers fail.
Stephen Akey reads raw Catullus.
Frank Wilson writes a haiku or two.
Since the August 2011 earthquake, this previously camera-shy angel at the National Cathedral has become a minor celebrity, as well as a herald of the restoration work to come.
No furling earth, no incandescent wing—
You know your ruin by what your ruin is not:
No bounding vault, no lapidary gate,
No corbels raised to frame the blazing glass,
No graven arch to turn the pilgrim purse,
No choristers to round the close with verse,
No patrons’ patient faces grazed with sun,
No pedestals for patronage to come,
No babbling pandemonium of spring,
No spindling girls to bind their loves with blooms,
No censer-swirling deacon, nor his drudge
To agonize the vetch that winds the thyme,
No mourning dove to peck on wispy rhyme,
No scaffold-clambered bishop overhead,
No winch-raw backs, no oaken arms to roll
The stones to where they fit, before they fall,
No nobler you to pace the slouching wall
And squat by stumps, gnaw spalls of scaly bread,
And mutter to yourself, and to the night,
To columns crowded round you how you wait
For herald, harp, and scroll,
For pinnacles set perfectly alight,
For furling earth, for incandescent wing—
Undaunted, in the purple light we meet
As spider mites anticipate the shade
And halos haunt the vestibule. We kneel,
Unwrap our roundest rasps, and raze away
The hundred thousand afternoons you woke
And strained to brace the battlements you broke.
(For all the entries in this series, hit the “looking up” tab, or read the gargoyle FAQ.)