Death of a sense of fun,
Death of a sense of humour.
Death of sense.
Death.
How do you recover from this?
What do you fear?
Being found out.
Then why do you always give yourself away?
What do you want to do?
Hide.
Then why go out and make an exhibition of yourself?
What do you seek?
Oblivion.
At Holy Trinity Church in the village of Blythburgh on the
Suffolk coast the fingerprints of the Devil can be seen on the North door.
The events that led to the making of these marks occurred on
4th. August 1577 during a service in the church. During a tremendous storm, Black Shuck, the
Devil Dog burst through the door of the church, he ran up the nave, pat a large
congregation, he attacked and killed a man and a boy. He caused the church
steeple to collapse through the roof. Satisfied with the chaos he had caused
Black Such made his exit from the church but not before leaving scorch marks of
the aforementioned North door.
In A Straunge and Terrible Wunder) (1577),
Abraham Flemming described the events at St Mary’s Church, Bungay on the same
day:
“This black dog, or the divel in such a likenesse (God hee
knoweth al who worketh all,) running all along down the body of the church with
great swiftnesse, and incredible haste, among the people, in a visible fourm
and shape, passed between two persons, as they were kneeling uppon their knees,
and occupied in prayer as it seemed, wrung the necks of them bothe at one
instant clene backward, in somuch that even at a mome[n]t where they kneeled,
they stra[n]gely dyed.”
Black Shuck is vividly depicted in Highways & Byways
in East Anglia (1901), By W.A. Duut:
“He takes the form of a huge black dog, and prowls along
dark lanes and lonesome field footpaths, where, although his howling makes the
hearer's blood run cold, his footfalls make no sound. You may know him at once,
should you see him, by his fiery eye; he has but one, and that, like the Cyclops',
is in the middle of his head. But such an encounter might bring you the worst
of luck: it is even said that to meet him is to be warned that your death will
occur before the end of the year. So you will do well to shut your eyes if you
hear him howling; shut them even if you are uncertain whether it is the dog
fiend or the voice of the wind you hear. Should you never set eyes on our
Norfolk Snarleyow[9] you
may perhaps doubt his existence, and, like other learned folks, tell us that
his story is nothing but the old Scandinavian myth of the black hound of Odin,
brought to us by the Vikings who long ago settled down on the Norfolk
coast.”
The name “Shuck” is thought to derive from the Old English scucca meaning
'devil or fiend'.
Black Suck is embedded in the folklore of Norfolk, Suffolk,
Cambridge, the Fens and into Essex.
And below
Not a breath of wild air;
Still as the mosses that glow
On the flooring and over the lines
Of the roots here and there.
The pine-tree drops its dead;
They are quiet, as under the sea.
Overhead, overhead
Rushes life in a race,
As the clouds the clouds chase;
And we go,
And we drop like the fruits of the tree,
Even we,
Even so.
Dirge in the Woods - George Meredith (1828-1909)
I paid a visit to my local antiques centre recently and as usual I spent most of my time browsing the section devoted to secondhand books. One particular volume caught my eye, it was entitled The Life of the Fly by Jean-Henri Fabre, a first edition of the English translation from the original French. The book contains descriptions of the life cycles of various species of fly along with recollections from the life of the author
I opened the book and was hooked after reading the first sentence;
"This is what I wished for, hoc erat in votis: a bit of land, oh, not so very large, but fenced in, to avoid the drawbacks of a public way; an abandoned, barren, sun scorched bit of land, favored by thistles and by wasps and bees. Here, without fear of being troubled by the passersby, I could consult the Ammophila and the Sphex [two digger or hunting wasps] and engage in that difficult conversation whose questions and answers have experiment for their language; here, without distant expeditions that take up my time, without tiring rambles that strain my nerves, I could contrive my plans of attack, lay my ambushes and watch their effects at every hour of the day. Hoc erat in votis. Yes, this was my wish, my dream, always cherished, always vanishing into the mists of the future."
Jean-Henri Fabre was born in Leon's, Averyron, France on 22st December 1823. His family was quite poor but he was motivated to self educate himself, and he was awarded with a primary teaching certificate at the age of 19. Although hecwas well versed in physics, chemistry and botany he is best known for his works on etymology, he published many works during his lifetime,. As well as The book I purchased on the life of the Fly, he also wrote about the life cycles of the spider, the scorpion and other insects.
Fabre died on 11th October 1915.
And he said, What shall I cry?
All flesh is grass,
and all the goodliness thereof is as the flower of the field:
The grass withereth, the flower fadeth:
because the spirit of the Lord bloweth upon it:
surely the people is grass.
The grass withereth, the flower fadeth:
but the word of our God shall stand for ever.
Isaiah 40 6-8
