Some stories, tales, plays, and such are so filled to overflowing, packed down, and heaped high with lines that stimulate the mind and pluck the strings of the soul that they are beyond comprehension--or rather, they exceed the bounds of my ability to recall, my stage of recollection being riddled with portals to oblivion. Therefore, I'm posting some bits from Hooker's translation of Cyrano de Bergerac that I had enjoyed and forgotten.
De Guiche: Let him rewrite a few lines here and there, and he'll approve the rest of it.
Cyrano: Impossible. My blood curdles to think of altering one comma.
De Guiche: Ah, but when he likes a thing, he pays well.
Cyrano: Yes--but not so well as I--When I have made a line that sings itself so that I love the sound of it--I pay myself a hundred times.
De Guiche: You are proud, my friend.
Cyrano: You have observed that?
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Cyrano: To sing, to laugh, to dream, To walk in my own way and be alone, Free, with an eye to see things as they are, A voice that means manhood—to cock my hat Where I choose—At a word, a Yes, a No, To fight—or write. To travel any road Under the sun, under the stars, nor doubt If fame or fortune lie beyond the bourne— Never to make a line I have not heard In my own heart; yet, with all modesty To say: “My soul, be satisfied with flowers, With fruit, with weeds even; but gather them In the one garden you may call your own.”
Cyrano: It is my pleasure to displease. I love Hatred. Imagine how it feels to face The volley of a thousand angry eyes— The bile of envy and the froth of fear Spattering little drops about me—You— Good nature all around you, soft and warm—
The Spanish ruff I wear around my throat Is like a ring of enemies; hard, proud, Each point another pride, another thorn— So that I hold myself erect perforce. Wearing the hatred of the common herd Haughtily, the harsh collar of Old Spain, At once a fetter and—a halo!
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Cyrano: And what is a kiss, when all is done? A promise given under seal—a vow Taken before the shrine of memory— A signature acknowledged—a rosy dot Over the i of Loving—a secret whispered To listening lips apart—a moment made Immortal, with a rush of wings unseen— A sacrament of blossoms, a new song Sung by two hearts to an old simple tune— The ring of one horizon around two souls Together, all alone!
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On the writing front, the gains have been minimal. I've completed another chapter. I'm thinking ahead to a short description to generate interest in Book 6 of the Tomahawks and Dragon Fire Series. Here's the first rough stab at it:
Alex and Lucette take the fight to the commander. They embark on a bold enterprise to strike a decisive blow liberty. Will their combined efforts be enough to save Washington's army from the massive force poised to crush the rebellion?
Akram and the dragon hunters implement Akram's plan to recover his son--and to exact his vengeance. Can he overcome his enemies before the power of the dragon stone overcomes him?
When the dragons begin a new campaign of destruction, their savage minions take Hugh and the women. How can they escape, or will torture and fiery death be their fate?
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