Pierre and His People, [Tales of the Far North], Volume 4.

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These methods will preserve all fruit as well as if they were just picked. Mago of Carthage emphasizes this significance, when at the auspicious beginning of his writings he states A man who has bought land must sell his town house. That way he'll not be praying to the gods of the city more than to the deities of the country. For any man who keeps his town house nearer his heart has no need of a country estate. I rose quickly, disordered, and drenched in sweat. I was amazed at the clear vision of the powerful goddess in my dream. So I sprinkled myself with seawater, and eager to understand her great command, I recalled over and over the order of her instructions.

Then immediately a golden sun arose, dispersing the clouds of dark night, and there a crowd filled all the streets with a triumphal, religious procession One masqueraded as a soldier wearing a sheath! One was girdled in a Greek cloak, made out like a hunter with sandals and a spear! Another was in gilded slippers, a silken robe, and expensive jewelry, with woven hair plaits, imitating the walk of a woman. Far off, there was another in leggings, a shield, a helmet and sword, and an emblem from the games so that you might think a gladiator had appeared. Neither was a magistrate missing-with his functionary rods and royal purple toga-nor one who reinvented himself in a cloak and scepter, woven sandals, and the bearded goatee of a philosopher.

Along came a pair carrying different cane rods: one of birdlime for a bird catcher, another with hooks for a fisherman. I even saw a trained bear dressed like a woman being carried in a chair, and a monkey in a woven hat and a saffron-colored Phrygian dress like the shepherd boy, Ganymede, carrying a golden cup. There was even an ass with glued wings walking beside a crippled old man, so that one was Bellerophon and the other Pegasus though you'd laugh at both!

And at first came the women, radiant in white garments, rejoicing in their various vestments, blooming in spring garlands, and strewing the ground with flowerlets from their bosoms along the streets where the sacred throng followed It was a little urn, shaped in splendid gold and most skillfully hollowed, with a rounded base and strange Egyptian images on its surface.

Its mouth, not particularly elevated, jutted out like a beak into a long spout, and on its other side, a large handle was attached, arching into a broad curve. On top, coiled in a knot and rearing the striped swelling of a scaly neck, was a viper. The priest carrying my fate and my very fortune! Having endured so many labors, traversed such danger, by the foresight of the great goddess I'd overcome a Fortune which most cruelly wrestled me down.

And yet, impassioned in sudden ecstasy, I did not rush forth with unmerciful haste. For of course, I was scared that the solemn procession of the ceremony might be frightened by the sudden appearance of a four-footed animal, so I calmly and gradually hesitated forward, as if with human steps and a bent body, and I gently crept truly by providence! He stopped at once, and with his right hand he held out a garland wantonly before my mouth.

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I was shaking, with my beating heart endlessly throbbing, and the crown, which was interwoven with pleasant roses, was glistening, and I, hungry for what I'd been promised, in my yearning mouth eagerly devoured that gift. Nor did the divine promise deceive me: suddenly the ugly, beastly form was stripped from me. At first the naughty hair shed down, then the thick skin began to contract, the gross belly retracted, the soles of the feet shot through the hooves into toes, my hands were no longer feet but stretched out in their upright function, my extended neck shrunk, the mouth and head became round, the enormous ears went back to their pristine littleness, the bulky teeth returned to small human shape, and that which had tortured me most of all-my tail-disappeared.

The crowds were amazed. The pious ones worshiped the clear power of the supreme goddess and the splendor mirrored by the vision of my dream and the ease of my transformation with a voice both clear and consonant, and putting their hands in the sky, they bore witness to the clear beneficence of the goddess. You who have been always leaders of Africa, men of Carthage, men of rank, men of happiness, I am glad you live in such prosperous times that you can find both the time and the pleasure of censuring clothing!

This is the sort of pursuit of peace and plenty.

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All is well on the part of the empire and on the part of the sky. However, in the past you too wore your clothing, tunics, differently: they were even famous for their skillful weave, harmonious coloring, and proper size. For they did not fall extravagantly over the legs or shamelessly above the knees, they did not fit shortly at the arms nor tightly at the hands. No, in a fourfold suitable form it fitted men it was not considered easy to divide its folds with a belt.

The outer garment, the pallium , itself also quadrangular, was thrown back from both sides and knit around the neck in the bit of a buckle, and so rested on the shoulders. Its equivalent today is what is worn by the priests of Aesculapius, who has also become yours. This is the way the twin town close by used to dress, and wherever else in Africa there is a Tyrus.

But as soon as the urn of worldly loss swung around and the deity favored the Romans, your twin town hastened to change on its own account. Thus it wished to salute Scipio at his landing beforehand through its prematurely Roman attire. Animals also change, not in dress but in form. And yet for the peacock its feathers form a dress, a festive dress at that: one that has a deeper hue than all purple at its flowery neck, more golden than all edgings at its gleaming back, fanning out more than any strange robe where its tail lies down; many-colored, parti-colored, changing in color; never itself, always different, although it is always itself when it is different, bound to change color as often as it is moved.

The snake too must be mentioned, though after the peacock, for this animal also exchanges what it has been allotted, namely its skin and its age, for as soon as it senses the coming of old age, it wrings itself into a narrow spot, enters a hole, and at once leaves its skin, being scraped smooth at the very threshold. Abandoning its slough right there, revived, it then snakes its way out. Along with its scales it shakes off the years.

The hyena, if you look closely, is of an annual sex: it alternates between male and female. I keep silent about the stag, that it also controls its own age: having fed on a snake and falling sick it is rejuvenated. Then we have the four-footed, slowly stepping, lowly, stubborn creature No, I don't.

The line applies to another little animal as well, really one of medium size, but with a great name. If you hear about a "chameleon" without any knowledge of it, you will fear something bigger than a lion. But once you come across one, generally in a vineyard, lying in its entirety under a vine foliage, you will laugh right away at the boldness of its name, which is Greek at that. For its body contains no moisture, unlike much smaller creatures. Much needed to be said to arrive well-prepared at man. Whatever you regard as his beginnings, by all means he was naked and undressed when he was fashioned by his maker.

It was only later that he grasped wisdom, prematurely, before he was entitled to it. Then and there he hastened to cover the part of his new body not yet meant for shame: for the time being he veiled it with fig leaves. Later, when he was exiled from his birthplace because he had sinned, he was shown into the world, as if into a mine, clad in a skin.

Pierre and His People: Tales of the Far North. Volume 4. by Gilbert Parker - Free Ebook

But these are mysteries for not all to know. Come, show us something of yours, a story told by the Egyptians, listed by Alexander, read by his mother, a story about the time of Osiris, when Ammon, rich in sheep, made his way from here to Africa. From a little scorpion the land emits great evil. As many poisons, as many types, as much ruin, as many species, as much pain, as many colors.

Nicander writes about it and depicts it well. Yet of all things, the movement of its tail the so-called coda, which extends from behind the body and strikes inflicts the most pain. So this is the scorpion: its chain of knots, from a thin, poisonous vein, rising up in an arc of rage, and drawing at its height a barbed spear like the war-plan of a catapult.

For this reason the war machine with retracted spears is also called a scorpion. Its sting is also an open vein, and it volleys venom into the wound as it pierces. It's well known the dangerous season is summer. In the south and southwest winds, this ferocity is at work. In terms of remedies, natural things appear most effective; so too magic works; there's a cure by knife and potion. Some, who hope to swiftly avoid pain, drink an immunization, but sex keeps it from working, and then immediately you're at risk again.

You rightly chastise me, dearest Donatus, though I remember myself what I've promised. And now seems precisely the right time to answer your letter, as the mild grape-harvest season and the appointed peace of the ending year allow an unclenched mind to withdraw in earnest reflection. The place fits the season. The pleasant beauty of the gardens becomes the gentle breezes of sweet autumn, soothing and nourishing the senses. For here, one can lead the delightful day in conversation and teach, by learned tales, some sacred sayings to the heart's conscience.

And just so any indecent onlooker might not interrupt our conversation or wild clamor of the household deafen our talk, let us seek this place-the neighboring seclusion grants us solitude-just as the wild drooping of the vines in hanging knots crawls through thick canes, and a leafy shelter has made us a vined colonnade. Rightly, we give our ears this reflection, and while looking into the groves and vineyards, pleasing the eyes with delightful scenes, at once the act of listening instructs our mind, and our eyes nourish it: and yet now your only grace, your only care, is our discourse.

Rejecting the allure of pleasant scenes, you have fixed your eyes upon me: with your mouth, with your mind, you are every part the listener, with the love with which you love. I came to Carthage. Everywhere a medley of shameful loves was clamoring around me. I wasn't yet capable of loving, and yet I loved to love, and with more hidden desire I hated that I was less desirous.

I was looking for what I could love, loving love, and I despised surety and a path free of danger. It was all because I was hungry from within, for more internal foods, for you-my God-though I hungered not with that hunger.

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No, I was without the desire for incorruptible nourishments. Yet I was not satisfied with them, rather more empty, more sick. Because of this, I was not rightly well in my soul, and it exposed itself as ulcerous to the world, piteously desirous to be tickled by the touch of the senses.

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For if the senses had no soul, they would not be so loved. To love and be loved was sweet to me, better yet if I might have taken pleasure in the body of a lover. And so I was polluting the vein of friendship with the filth of my desires. I was darkening its purity with the hell of my lust. And yet I wanted to be disgraceful and dishonorable, handsome and cosmopolitan, all with such copious vanity.

Indeed I fell in love, and I was yearning to be trapped by it. My God, my Compassion, with how much poison you inflicted that charm on me with all your goodness. Because I was loved, I arrived secretly at the bond of pleasuring. I was happy being bound to those wretched bonds, though I might be scourged with the passionate, cruel switch of jealousy and suspicions and fears and angers and arguments. I collapsed beneath a fig tree, I can't recall how, and unleashed my tears.

My eyes, as rivers, burst forth, worthy of your sacrifice, Lord, and though not with these words, but with these feelings, I said to you, "Even you, Lord, forever? Forever, Lord, will you be angry forever? Will you be mindful of my prior sins? I cast out such miserable words: "How long, how long? Tomorrow, even tomorrow? Why not now? Why not this very hour end my disgrace? Yet then I heard a voice from a nearby house singing songs in constant repetition, whether a boy or girl, I can't recall: "Pick up, read; pick up, read.

I had never heard it anywhere. So I rose, suppressing the passion of my tears, and interpreting it as nothing other than a divine commandment to take a book and read the first chapter I might find. Indeed, I had heard of Antony, as he chanced upon a reading from the Gospels, and was chastised, as though what he was reading was speaking directly to him: "Go, sell everything, sell all you have, give it to the poor, and you will have a trove in heaven; come, follow me"; and through such miracles immediately Antony was converted to you, Lord.

So I went back to that place where Alypius sat, for there I had placed the book of the apostles when I had gotten up. I took it. I opened it and read it in silence, that chapter which my eyes had first cast upon: Not in rioting and drunkenness, not in laziness and immodesty, not in contention and jealousy, but as one must bear you, Lord Jesus Christ, and make no provision for the flesh in desire.

I read no more. There was no need. At once, at the end of the sentence, as if by a light of freedom infused into my heart, all shades of doubt disappeared. So, as children do not grow to speak other than by learning the speech of speakers, then why are orators not able to develop the art of oratory by reading and listening to the orations of orators and, as much as possible, by imitating them? Why not? Do we not experience it? For we know many more who are eloquent without the rules of rhetoricians than those who have learned them, and yet there is none excellent in orations and declamations without having read and listened.

The life of a writer holds greater weight than the grandeur of his diction. For he who speaks wisely and eloquently yet lives miserably teaches the multitudes eager for learning while his own soul is useless. But you say that we should believe in them, though you don't show them to us so we might see them, nor are they within our own minds, so that we can think and see them. Yet surely we ought to believe in certain temporal things which we cannot see so that we may be worthy of seeing eternal things which we believe.

The official ensigns of the court proffer sacred honors, exchanging new names in the books of the festival calendar. The Sun, already in blows, releases the ices of winter, as buds break in swollen shells on the vine. The rights of Mars stir. In ranks, they threaten cruel wars to rouse the troops and shear the young vines with the scythe. After chaos recedes, the world's young fruits rejoice.

The times of night are weighed out with the light of day. The bejeweled fields show signs of spring through infinite colors; the sweet-smelling turf is constellated in divine flowers. With the armed harvests swaying like flaxen grain, the farmer reclaims his debt, and the sailor's seas swell. The damp dwelling of the Moon gives dry harvests and draws off the springwaters, so that the Nile floods. August holds the warm halls of the Sun, but the name of Caesar applies: it offers ripe fruit, as open ground wears away the dry grain.

Autumn burns partly in multicolored vines, the wine promising the farmers a reward for their labor. The drunken flow is brought forth by the farmers, dancing, and the joyful country life is properly humbled in wine. Lazy winter, returning, grows numb, as the olive tree ripens and crops seize the ground which has replenished with interest. The cold midwinter's snowing loads the lofty mountains in frost, and glacial chill suckles its lambs, nursing under their mothers.

In this fourth volume of the landmark Poems for the Millennium series, Pierre Joris and Habib Tengour present a comprehensive anthology of the written and oral literatures of the Maghreb, the region of North Africa that spans the modern nation states of Libya, Tunisia, Algeria, Morocco, and Mauritania, and including a section on the influential Arabo-Berber and Jewish literary culture of Al-Andalus, which flourished in Spain between the ninth and fifteenth centuries. Beginning with the earliest pictograms and rock drawings and ending with the work of the current generation of post-independence and diasporic writers, this volume takes in a range of cultures and voices, including Berber, Phoenician, Jewish, Roman, Vandal, Arab, Ottoman, and French.

Though concentrating on oral and written poetry and narratives, the book also draws on historical and geographical treatises, philosophical and esoteric traditions, song lyrics, and current prose experiments. The selections are contextualized by a general introduction that situates the importance of this little-known culture area and individual commentaries for nearly each author. Habib Tengour is a poet, editor, translator, anthropologist, and novelist. Books Digital Products Journals. Anonymous translation from Greek Callimachus Cyrene, c. Thirteen Epigrammatic Poems 1 I loathe the serial poem, rejoice not in a road that many people travel, and hate a beloved who's made the rounds.

No fountain drinks, things public disgust me. But you, Lysanias, I thought fair, I thought fine. No sooner said than Echo replies, "But not mine. By the dazzling sun, I didn't know you. Where've you been, pathetic bag of hair and bones? Have you caught my luck, been hit hard by heaven? Now I get it. Euxitheos took off with you. When you came here, you just ate him up with both eyes.

With one of the boys again? I often said, "Don't take him in, young men, that runaway. Show him a wounded beast, and he won't take it. That's my way of loving: to pursue my quarry as it runs away, and to fly right by whatever lies in my path for the taking. I can't trust myself. Don't hold me.

Because we believe this work is culturally important, we have made it available as part of our commitment to protecting, preserving, and promoting the worlds literature. Kessinger Publishing is the place to find hundreds of thousands of rare and hard-to-find books with something of interest for everyone!

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Sorry, incorrect details. Welcome back pal! Please enter your User Name, email ID and a password to register. International Shipping at best shipping prices! Notify Me We will send an email as soon as we get it in stock. Write a Testimonial Few good words, go a long way, thanks! Booth Tarkington. Bayou Folk. Kate Chopin. His Own People. The Ruling Passion; tales of nature and human nature. Henry Van Dyke. Gilbert Parker. The Going of the White Swan. Sir Gilbert Parker - 1st Baronet.

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    Pierre and His People, [Tales of the Far North], Volume 4. Pierre and His People, [Tales of the Far North], Volume 4.
    Pierre and His People, [Tales of the Far North], Volume 4. Pierre and His People, [Tales of the Far North], Volume 4.
    Pierre and His People, [Tales of the Far North], Volume 4. Pierre and His People, [Tales of the Far North], Volume 4.
    Pierre and His People, [Tales of the Far North], Volume 4. Pierre and His People, [Tales of the Far North], Volume 4.
    Pierre and His People, [Tales of the Far North], Volume 4. Pierre and His People, [Tales of the Far North], Volume 4.
    Pierre and His People, [Tales of the Far North], Volume 4. Pierre and His People, [Tales of the Far North], Volume 4.
    Pierre and His People, [Tales of the Far North], Volume 4. Pierre and His People, [Tales of the Far North], Volume 4.

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