{"id":27180,"date":"2024-05-10T10:18:00","date_gmt":"2024-05-10T14:18:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/?p=27180"},"modified":"2024-05-10T10:18:05","modified_gmt":"2024-05-10T14:18:05","slug":"the-passage-of-time-of-life-and-of-many-many-words","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/2024\/05\/the-passage-of-time-of-life-and-of-many-many-words\/","title":{"rendered":"The Passage of Time, of Life, and of Many Many Words"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/figure>\n\n\n

[Image: illustration — I guess woodcut or similar medium? — accompanying the poem “Magic Words,” below<\/a>, by an uncredited artist. Found it here<\/a>, in the 1967 book <\/em>Songs and Stories of the of the Netsilik Eskimos, by Edward Field.]<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

From whiskey river<\/a><\/em>:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

Here are people who refused to cheat, who eagerly sought out the truth and shrank from neither poetry nor terror, the two poles of our globe—since poetry does exist in the world, in certain events, at rare moments. And there’s also no shortage of terror.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

(Adam Zagajewski [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n\n\n\n

…and<\/a>:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

Magic Words<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

In the very earliest time,
When both people and animals lived on earth,
A person could become an animal if he wanted to
and an animal could become a human being.
Sometimes they were people
and sometimes animals
and there was no difference.
All spoke the same language.
That was the time when words were like magic.
The human mind had mysterious powers.
A word spoken by chance
might have strange consequences.
It would suddenly come alive
and what people wanted to happen could happen.
Nobody could explain this:
That’s the way it was.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

(Nalungiaq, Netsilik\/Inuit woman interviewed by ethnologist Knud Rasmussen; translated by Edward Field [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Not from whiskey river<\/em>:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

We don’t lack for clocks. From my desk I can see at least three clocks, two electric and one quartz. One is part of my computer and says it’s now 12:29. Another’s built into the radio and shows 12:30. Finally, my wristwatch gives me 12:31. Fortunately, my watch has traditional hands and doesn’t rely upon the ruthless go-betweens of glowing numerals. We’ve got a lot of time.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

(Adam Zagajewski [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n\n\n\n

…and:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

Heaven and Hell<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n

And when we die at last,
we really know very little about what happens then.
But people who dream
have often seen the dead appear to them
just as they were in life.
Therefore we believe life does not end here on earth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We have heard of three places where men go after death:
There is the Land of the Sky, a good place
where there is no sorrow and fear.
There have been angatoks<\/span> who went there
and came back to tell us about it:
They saw people playing ball, happy people
who did nothing but laugh and amuse themselves.
What we see from down here in the form of stars
are the lighted windows of the villages of the dead
in the Land of the Sky.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Then there are two other worlds of the dead underground:
Way deep down is a place just like here on earth
except on earth you starve
and down there they live in plenty.
The caribou graze in great herds
and there are endless plains
with juicy berries that are nice to eat.
Down there too, everything
is happiness and fun for the dead.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

But there is another place, the Land of the Miserable,
right under the surface of the earth we walk on.
There go all the lazy men who were poor hunters,
and all women who refused to be tattooed
not caring to suffer a little to become beautiful.
They had no life in them when they lived
so now after death they must squat on their haunches
with hanging heads, bad-tempered and silent,
and live in hunger and idleness
because they wasted their lives.
Only when a butterfly comes flying by
do they life their heads
(as young birds open pink mouths uselessly after a gnat)
and when they snap at it, a puff of dust
comes out of their dry throats.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Of course it may be
that all I have been telling you is wrong
for you cannot be certain about what you cannot see.
But these are the stories that our people tell.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

(Nalungiaq, ibid.<\/em> [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n\n\n\n

…and:<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\n

Animal minds are simple, and therefore sharp. Animals never spend time dividing experience into little bits and speculating about all the bits they\u2019ve missed. The whole panoply of the universe has been neatly expressed to them as things to (a) mate with, (b) eat, (c) run away from, and (d) rocks. This frees the mind from unnecessary thoughts and gives it a cutting edge where it matters. Your normal animal, in fact, never tries to walk and chew gum at the same time. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

The average human, on the other hand, thinks about all sorts of things around the clock, on all sorts of levels, with interruptions from dozens of biological calendars and time-pieces. There\u2019s thoughts about to be said, and private thoughts, and real thoughts, and thoughts about thoughts, and a whole gamut of subconscious thoughts. To a telepath the human head is a din. It is a railway terminus with all the Tannoys talking at once. It is a complete FM waveband—and some of those stations aren\u2019t reputable, they\u2019re outlawed pirates on forbidden seas who play late-night records with limbic lyrics.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n\n\n\n

(Terry Pratchett [source<\/a><\/em>])<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

[Image: illustration — I guess woodcut or similar medium? — accompanying the poem “Magic Words,” below, by an uncredited artist. Found it here, in the 1967 book Songs and Stories of the of the Netsilik Eskimos, by Edward Field.] From whiskey river: Here are people who refused to cheat, who eagerly sought out the truth […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":27184,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_genesis_hide_title":false,"_genesis_hide_breadcrumbs":false,"_genesis_hide_singular_image":false,"_genesis_hide_footer_widgets":false,"_genesis_custom_body_class":"","_genesis_custom_post_class":"","_genesis_layout":"","h5ap_radio_sources":[],"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"activitypub_content_warning":"","activitypub_content_visibility":"","activitypub_max_image_attachments":3,"activitypub_interaction_policy_quote":"anyone","activitypub_status":"federate","footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"Adam Zajewski, Inuit folktales, and Terry Pratchett: 'The Passage of Time, of Life, and of Many Many Words'","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":false,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[183,247,250,4878,251,4159],"tags":[142,1019,1020,1633,4439,5906,5907],"class_list":{"0":"post-27180","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","5":"has-post-thumbnail","7":"category-everyday-life","8":"category-ruminations","9":"category-art","10":"category-fiction","11":"category-poetry-writing_cat","12":"category-essays","13":"tag-terry-pratchett","14":"tag-time","15":"tag-words","16":"tag-adam-zagajewski","17":"tag-edward-field","18":"tag-nalungiaq","19":"tag-knud-rasmussen","20":"entry"},"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/05\/magicwords.jpg?fit=1078%2C781&ssl=1","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/p6kZSG-74o","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/27180","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=27180"}],"version-history":[{"count":8,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/27180\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":27189,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/27180\/revisions\/27189"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/27184"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=27180"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=27180"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/johnesimpson.com\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=27180"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}