
Lindsay's Inner Circle
Esther names a Rose
Britney's Meltdown
Anna Nicole, Britney and Mind-Control (Sat. Feb. 24th)
The Daily Behemoth Britney
"Even on his way home, Reynard succeeded in catching a fat hen. 'And it will always be that way.'" The final sentence of the Dutch novel, Van den vos Reynaerde, is just as innocent as the face of Reynard the Fox. This time, however, it is not Reynard who is the villain. Yes, he does steal a few chickens, but that's the way he is. Much worse is Jodocus, the rhinoceros, a cunning, money-grubbing animal who came from far away to settle in the land of the late King Nobel. His family has secretly followed him from the East and together they seize power, taking control of the money market and poisoning the people with strange new ideas. With their entrance, the decline of the empire begins.
When the third dawn from the vanishing of the Hyades
Breaks, the horses will be in their stalls in the Circus.
So I must explain why foxes are loosed then,
Carrying torches fastened to scorched backs.
The land round Carseoli’s cold, not suited for growing
Olives, but the soil there’s appropriate for corn.
I passed it on the way to my native Pelignian country,
A small region, yet always supplied by constant streams.
There I entered, as usual, the house of my former host:
Phoebus had already unyoked his weary horses.
My host used to tell me of many things, including this,
As a preparation for my present work:
‘In that plain,’ he said (pointing at the plain),
A thrifty peasant woman and her sturdy husband had a small
Plot, he tilled the land himself, whether it needed ploughing,
Or required the curving sickle or the hoe.
They would sweep the cottage, set on timber piles,
She’d set eggs to hatch under the mother hen’s feathers,
Or collect green mallows or gather white mushrooms,
Or warm the humble hearth with welcome fire,
And still worked her hands assiduously at the loom,
To provision them against the threat of winter cold.
She had a son: he was a playful child,
Who was already twelve years old.
In a valley, he caught, in the depths of a willow copse,
A vixen, who’d stolen many birds from the yard.
He wrapped his captive in straw and hay, and set fire
To it all: she fled the hands that were out to burn her:
In fleeing she set the crops, that covered the fields, ablaze:
And a breeze lent strength to the devouring flames.
The thing’s forgotten, but a relic remains: since now
There’s a certain law of Carseoli, that bans foxes:
And they burn a fox at the Cerialia to punish the species,