Of course this was completely unplanned. Thursday, May 14th (I date it for posterity’s sake) after dinner at about half past six Matthew and I stepped out for Matthew to bike ride to the local school yard. It’s just a couple of blocks away and they have a little track on level ground for him to circle. We turned to go into the backyard and right there on the side of the house was a local stray cat, who was caught by surprise. Seeing the two of us, she darted up the block. But nearby, frozen with surprise was a little kitten. It didn’t know what to do, and when we approached it he sped in a different direction than the big cat, into our back yard, where he hid behind one of the garbage cans.

We chased him and I reached behind and pulled him out. It was the cutest little thing. I didn’t know if I should leave him out, and yet taking him in would be a burden. We had never had cats before. We already have a demanding dog, who is still an overactive pup. We already have a five year old boy who consumes all our time when he’s not in school or asleep. I could have put him down and let his mother—if that was his mother who darted off, though I some doubt because the coloring was completely different, and she, if it were a she, showed no motherly concern for the tike. But he was so darned cute. And I don’t know how many kittens survive into cathood living in the streets. He was so passive in my hands. He wasn’t afraid.

As many of you now know, our beloved Yellow Labrador Retriever, Brandi, passed away a number of weeks ago. She had cirrhosis of the liver due to canine hepatitis and lymphoma, a double whammy from which it was impossible to treat. The hepatitis was something she had for quite some time. She nearly died from it a year and a half before, but she responded to treatment then. This time no matter what we did her liver function numbers kept getting worse, and then when we decided to do a biopsy (we didn’t know whether it was hepatitis, canine copper storage disease, or some liver inflammation from something toxic she might have picked up) they found her spleen to contain cancerous nodules which turned out to be lymphoma. I don’t know if she felt pain in her last days, but we could tell she wasn’t well and she barely ate. We tried to coax her with all sorts of her favorite foods, but other than some turkey from Thanksgiving she just didn’t have an appetite.

Ash on an old man's sleeve
Is all the ash the burnt roses leave.
Dust in the air suspended
Marks the place where a story ended.
Dust inbreathed was a house-
The walls, the wainscot and the mouse,
The death of hope and despair,
This is the death of air.
-T.S. Eliot, from "Little Gilding."

This is my literary blog, reflecting my reads and thoughts on literature, novels, short stories, poetry, plays, even literary criticism. I'll also comment on writing style, especially the use of the English language. My name is Manny. I have an advanced degree in English Literature, but that's relatively meaningless. The love of high literature is the only criteria that really matters. Literature is the ultimate art form, abstract yet tangible, rhythmic yet static, didactic yet aesthetic. Literature as art form has had hold on me for over thirty years. Since I talk about it elsewhere, since I read continuously and ponder the artistry behind the works, since I dilly-dally with creative writing myself, and have built up some store of knowledge, I thought it high time to share my thoughts with those that may want to hear them, create a dialogue on shared readings to reach some sort of conclusion, and just kibitz on literary topics in a way that would occur if we dear reader were sitting at a cafe with a coffee or tea and a Limoncello or Sambuca.


I take the name for this blog, "Ashes From Burnt Roses" from T.S. Eliot's poem cited above. Set aside what Eliot might actually mean by the phrase, what the rose symbolizes here for me is the highest artistic perfection from nature. And yet, in our discussion as we dissect and break literature down, it gets burned to ashes, reduced to cinders, dust and dirt. But let us hope that from our examination the rose rises from the ashes into the greater rose, the finer rose, the more complete rose. It is in understanding art, in reaching its central mystery—whether the mystery is revealed or veiled—that great art is fulfilled and reaches its teleologic purpose.

Please do not bring up politics here. I want nothing controversial on this blog. I want no one to feel alienated or aggrieved. It will be a failing on my part if this blog does not live up to the first line of the Prayer of St. Francis of Assisi, "Lord make me an instrument of your peace."

Also I am a Roman Catholic by faith, and I would consider myself somewhat devout. This is not a religious blog, and I don't intend to ever talk about theology, except if it might pertain to a work under discussion. But my religion will at times reflect my reading choices and perhaps my readings of various works. That is who I am. I will also post an entry on Fridays--an image, or a poem or a music video--that reflects my faith. It will be my form of virtual prayer. Feel free to ignore it if it does nothing for you.

For all his talent, however, Zevon had a dark side. For much of his life, he was a serious alcoholic and suffered from Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. He wrecked his marriage with frequent affairs. At times, he was better known for his flights of rage than his music. And yet, as terrible and inexcusable as his behavior could be, Zevon’s relatives and friends still remember him with much affection. There are many reasons for this, but one of them may be that Warren Zevon was a man of quiet, resilient faith.

Faith is not something usually associated with the rocker who belted out “Werewolves” and wrote the even more macabre “Roland the Headless Thompson Gunner.” But faith there was.

In 2002, after he was stricken with terminal cancer, and given just three months to live, Zevon was asked whether his illness had changed his spiritual outlook. “No,” he said without hesitation, “I’ve always been a Christian.” Testifying to that is the cross Warren wore around his neck during the last year of his life. Everywhere he was seen during that period—on a VH-1 documentary, on the David Letterman Show, in his recording studio—it was seen, too.

Zevon said, “I’ve always been a Graham Greene guy, haven’t I? It’s alluded to in many albums.”

We went there often and just sat and held hands. It was Catholic, and he decided we should convert. He meant it. . . . He bought me a little gold cross to wear around my neck and told me we’d have a dozen babies and he’d play whatever music suited him and life would be grand. I wasn’t too enamored of the Catholic part, but I did love the reverence it brought up in him.

I hear Mariachi static on my radio
And the tubes they glow in the dark
And I'm there with her in Ensenada
And I'm here in Echo Park

Carmelita hold me tighter
I think I'm sinking down
And I'm all strung out on heroin
On the outskirts of town

We made mad love
Shadow love
Random love
And abandoned love
Accidentally like a martyr
The hurt gets worse and the heart gets harder

I was sitting in the Hollywood Hawaiian Hotel
I was staring in my empty coffee cup
I was thinking that the gypsy wasn't lyin'
All the salty margaritas in Los Angeles
I'm gonna drink 'em up

And if California slides into the ocean
Like the mystics and statistics say it will
I predict this motel will be standing until I pay my bill

Don't the sun look angry through the trees
Don't the trees look like crucified thieves
Don't you feel like Desperados under the eaves
Heaven help the one who leaves

Still waking up in the mornings with shaking hands
And I'm trying to find a girl who understands me
But except in dreams you're never really free
Don't the sun look angry at me

I was sitting in the Hollywood Hawaiian Hotel
I was listening to the air conditioner hum
It went mmm, mmm, mmm…
........................... Look
away..........................................
(Look away down Gower Avenue, Look away....)

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
(ll. 19-30)

A woman drew her long black hair out tight
And fiddled whisper music on those strings
And bats with baby faces in the violet light
Whistled, and beat their wings
And crawled head downward down a blackened wall
And upside down in air were towers
Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours
And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.
In this decayed hole among the mountains
In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing
Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel
There is the empty chapel, only the wind's home.
It has no windows, and the door swings,
Dry bones can harm no one.
Only a **** stood on the rooftree
Co co rico co co rico
In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust
Bringing rain
(ll. 377-94)