Last Words

You already know this - but I love some of the things famous people have said right before dying. Wanted to put down my fav's here for the record:

• Am I dying, or is this my birthday?
  • Who: Lady Nancy Astor
  • Note: In her final illness, she awoke on her deathbed to see her family at her bedside.
• mè mou tous kuklous taratte (Μη μου τους κύκλους τάραττε)
  • Translation: Don't disturb my circles!
  • Alternate: Don't disturb my equation.
  • Who: Archimedes
  • Note: In response to a Roman soldier who was forcing him to report to the Roman general after the capture of Syracuse, while he was busy sitting on the ground proving geometry theorems. The soldier killed him, despite specific instructions not to.
• I should never have switched from Scotch to Martinis.
  • Who: Humphrey Bogart
• I haven't had champagne for a long time.
  • Who: Anton Chekhov, playwright, 1904. A sanitarium nurse gave him champagne to ease his death from tuberculosis.
• I have tried so hard to do right.
  • Who: Grover Cleveland, US President, died 1908.
• Suppose, suppose.
  • Who: Wyatt Earp
  • Note: Whispered to his wife.
• She is squeezing my hand!
  • Who: Buckminster Fuller
  • Note: In the period leading up to his death, his wife had been lying comatose in a Los Angeles hospital, dying of cancer. It was while visiting her there that he exclaimed, at a certain point: "She is squeezing my hand!" He then stood up, suffered a heart attack and died an hour later. His wife died 36 hours after he did.
• Only you have ever understood me. … And you got it wrong..
  • Who: Georg Friedrich Wilhelm Hegel, to his favorite student.
• All is lost! Monks, Monks, Monks! So, now all is gone - Empire, Body, and Soul!.
  • Who: Henry VIII
• Tvert imot!
  • Translation: On the contrary!
  • Who: Henrik Ibsen
  • context: This was his response to a nurse who told a visitor he was a little better.
• I should have drunk more Champagne.
  • Who: John-Maynard Keynes
• I have not told half of what I saw.
  • Marco Polo, Venetian traveller and writer
• Dying is easy, comedy is hard
  • Who: George Bernard Shaw
  • Note: Said on his death bed.
• Moose … Indian.
  • Who: Henry David Thoreau
    • Note: These words he had said in a delirium before expiring. When urged earlier to make his peace with God his last coherent response was, "I did not know that we had ever quarreled."

I think Marco Polo's might be the most awesome.

found this quote the other day -

"The following winter was spent on schemes of social betterment. Agricola had to deal with people living in isolation and ignorance, and therefore prone to fight; and his object was to accustom them to a life of peace and quiet by the provision of amenities. He therefore gave private encouragement and official assistance to the building of temples, public squares, and good houses. He praised the energetic and scolded the slack; and competition for honour proved as effective as compulsion. Furthermore, he educated the sons of the chiefs in the liberal arts, and expressed a preference for British ability as compared with the trained skills of the Gauls. The result was that instead of loathing the Latin language they became eager to speak it effectively. In the same way, our national dress came into favour and the toga was everywhere to be seen. And so the population was gradually led into the demoralizing temptations of arcades, baths, and sumptuous banquets. The unsuspecting Britons spoke of such novelties as 'civilization', when in fact they were only a feature of their enslavement."

- Cornelius Tacitus (AD 56 - AD 117) from The Agricola and the Germania trans. Mattingly, Penguin. 72 - 73, emphasis mine.

thought provoking/scary on several levels:
1) In what ways, like the Britons, am I duped by the trappings of empire? and at what cost?
2) Tacitus wrote this. Cultural colonialism is apparantly not a new post-colonial-studies idea, nor are the strategies and effects of Imperialism.
3) All things considered, was there actually net loss for the peoples of Britain? As contra to all the impulses i was taught to have from my liberal education - I am somewhat open to the idea that empire isn't such a bad thing, as long as it lets its people live relatively freely. Tacitus on the other hand, seems to not be so hopeful:

Auferre trucidare rapere falsis nominibus imperium, atque ubi solitudinem faciunt, pacem appellant.

trans: "To ravage, to slaughter, to usurp under false titles, they call empire; and where they make a desert, they call it peace."

yikes.

A Helpful Preface

So - I have conceptualized my time here (in Martinique) as a sort of luxury mini version of the Chateau D'If from the Count of Monte Cristo. Only with regards to the tutelage the protagonist receives from the elderly priest - transforming him in to an educated gentlemen, of course, not in regards to the sadistic prison warden.

What i mean is - I am taking the time to go back and get 'educated' by reading some classic texts I never actually ploughed through in college, but whose ideas i have supposedly been debating for a couple years now. Beginning with Plato, i have been working my way present-ward on the question of Metaphysics. Having taken a couple large leaps through history, I am now hacking my way through Heidegger.

Anyways, the reason for the post is this:
About half-way through a liberal-arts education these days, one inevitably comes up face to face with 20th century continental philosophy. Like most people, I have spent several years swinging back and forth between awe and disgust at the obtuse and bizarre nature of the texts that have emerged from this tradition. Is it the most genius ideas ever written? or, like the Emperor in his new clothes, does everyone praise them when in reality there is nothing there to be taken seriously? I have gone back and forth.
But regardless of however i may or may not weight the importance of the ideas throughout the seasons, one opinion has never changed, and that is the horror at the degree of obfuscation present in them.
Sometimes, like Chomsky, I am prone to dismiss such writings out of hand on this fact alone, but, I came across this passage in Heidegger (taken from Being and Time) the other day, that I think should be a prefatory note printed before any and all texts written in this continental tradition:

"With regard to the awkwardness and 'inelegance' of expression in the following analyses we may remark that it is one thing to report narratively about beings and another to grasp beings in their Being. For the latter task not only most of the words are lacking but above all the 'grammar'. If we may allude to earlier and in their own right altogether incomparable researches on the analysis of Being, then we should compare the ontological sections of Plato's Parmenides...with a narrative passage from Thucydides. Then we would see the stunning character of the formulations by which their philosophers challenged the Greeks. Since our powers are essentially inferior, and also since the area of Being to be disclosed ontologically is far more difficult than that presented to the Greeks, the complexity of our concept-formation and the severity of our expression will increase."

now, this does not entirely vindicate or ground this sort of writing, taken from the Introduction to 'Being and Time':

"Thus it is constitutive of this Being of Dasein [being-there] to have, in its very Being, a relation of Being to this Being."

But it does offer a valid reason for a possible necessity of such difficult language.

Now, that said, I also think there is a difference between a man like Heidegger muscling through the most fundamentally challenging questions of existence using language he fought to be able to wield for decades, and who possessed a rare brilliance of mind that was able to contain such magnitudes (I would also put Derrida, [Rorty is with me on this - 3rd paragraph. also, an awesome wiki article] and a very small handful of others in this category of greatness), and some Univeristy of Colorado professor who just slings bullshit po-mo terms around to make his thesis sound "cool". The latter I have no space for - if simple language can be used: Use it. If the topic is SO complex and nuanced, that massively difficult language is absolutlely necessary - well then, you better be brilliant. Which, I am finding out, Heidegger was.

So,Textbook editors for continental texts: please include this Heidegger quote as a preface in your books in the future.

also - the fact that no one pointed this out to me when i first started questioning such texts, affirms my suspicion that many of the people who throw such names and ideas around willy-nilly don't actually know what they are talking about. Otherwise, when I expressed my confusion, they could have given me this straight forward explanation that would have invariably helped me on my quest to try and understand what all this mess is about.

Now & Then

So last week I read Frederick Buechner's Now & Then. It was the second Buechner book I'd read, after Telling the Truth, which I read back in the fall (somehow I made it through four years of Wheaton without ever tackling him—or perhaps that's exactly why I hadn't until now).

I have never read an author, not even Hemingway, who leaves me with as mixed feelings as Buechner does. For one, I feel tremendous pressure to like him: he is a staple of the left-leaning, intellectual, liturgical Wheatie's (LLILW) bookshelf, right next to Balthasar and Berry, Auden and Milosz (assuming this is an "out" year for Lewis). More importantly, Ben likes him, and Ben has darn good opinions about religious writers. And I do like him, he punches a lot of my buttons. He's nuanced, he's lucid, he's mindful of paradox and mystery. He strikes me as being totally authentic, up front about his failures and his desires. He is also a beautiful writer, perhaps the most beautiful nonfiction writer I've ever had the pleasure of reading. And he calls out directly those nebulous things that are the core of what I can't dismiss about Christianity: in his own words, that it is

the tale that is too good not to be true because to dismiss it as untrue is to dismiss along with it the catch of the breath, that beat and lifting of the heart near to or even accompanied by tears, which I believe is the deepest intuition of truth that we have.

How can you argue with that? Which for me is the point: I can't. And because of that I feel somehow like I've been tricked. So that's one point of contention for me—am I swayed by the rhetoric or am I swayed by that ineffable thing, that "catch of the breath"? Am I being a responsible reader to think such a skeptical thought, or do I need to make the Kierkegaardian leap over my cynicism?

But putting aside that huge, gut-wrenching question, I still have some issues with FB. For one, his Christianity is extremely internal and individual—at least in what I've read, there's very little of the widows-and-orphans stuff that's so crucial to Jesus' teachings. Because of this, he's awfully abstract. He admits that all he can do is tell his story, which is awesome, but doesn't help much in terms of practicals. On one hand, I love his emphasis on growth, on religion as process, as narrative. On the other hand, he focuses perhaps too much on the "not yet" side of things and not enough on the "already" part, if that makes sense. I tend to be inclined towards the mystic, contemplative part of Christianity, so maybe I'm just seeing my own shortcomings in how Buechner articulates my views. Which is a good thing.

I don't want to get on FB for not presenting a perfectly rounded portrayal of Christianity in all its aspects (indeed, who outside of Aquinas or Barth could?). He's only presenting what has stuck out to him, highlighting what has maybe gone underappreciated. But I still can't help feeling he's a little...soft? Like his vision of religion is almost too easy to swallow. He talks about the darkness, the jaggedness of it, but what he says is belied by his own clear, elegant writing. He's maybe unconsciously sanded off some of those rough edges simply by being a great prose stylist (Marilynne Robinson is perhaps also guilty of this--maybe that's why both her and Buechner enjoy a wider audience among the New York Times set than most religious writers).

Ben, thoughts? You're more read in Buechner than I, is there any particular book that would undo some of this?

Reflections on the French Language pt. III

some gems from the selection of phrases in the back of my circa 1960 dictionary:

"Don't you have any pillows?"
"May I keep this as a souvenir?"
"May I take my camera into the church?"
"do you have it in white?
"I prefer solid colors"
"horsemeat"

and my personal favorite:

"By Force"

Oh 1960s tourists. Ha.

Reflections on the French Language, pt. II

couple more thoughts:

1) the word for 'boring' ("ennuier") is the same as the word for 'irritating'.

2) the french actually say "voila!" all the time. it's hilarious.

3) the word for 'self' and 'same' is the same! "meme". amazing.

4) many of the words that i am learning for everyday-things are cognates with super-fancy words in english. for instance, the word for 'room' is 'chambre' and the english word 'chamber' implies a super-fancy room. the word for 'porch' is 'terrace', whose english cognate implies a sort of ultra-grand porch. Or, the word for fun is 'amusement', like the more posh sounding, 'amusing'. I am noticing this phenomenon all over the place, and it has shown me how much of the medieval english notion of 'the french origin is far superior' is still present in today's english vernacular. Apparently our mother-tongue has not yet sloughed off the ramifications of William the Conqueror's installation of a francophone gentry and the prestige brits have placed on the french ever since.

Reflections on the French Language, pt. I

it has been far too long since I have posted, and i have been musing on some of the things i have been discovering about the french language. Many of these things i thought might be of interest to you too, Mark; as well as for the people who might once have gandered into 213 (which seems like oh so long ago now!) so, here is pt 1 of what might be several posts. consider it a 'report from the field' for the national geographic society in our hearts. :)

Oh, the presuppostion to these reflections is the idea that language shapes thought. that we cannot think far outside of the language we have been given, and that the way we call things shapes the way we see them / the way they are.

so, some early observations:

1) The french have no word for 'home'! no joke! you just say "chez moi" which means 'by me' or "maison" which is 'house'. No home! it also places it on the spectrum. in english we have 'home' and all the denotations therein ('no place like home', 'home is where the heart is', etc), but apparantly in german and dutch they have this word Gemutlichkeit (sp?) which means something even more than the english 'hominess'. anyway.

2) there is no verb in parlance for 'to need'. rather, one "has a need" ('as bousoin'). Interesting, the idea of the temporariness of need, rather than it being a state of existence.

3) the possesive changes based on the gender of the object. if the object is masc. it is 'Mon X', if it is fem, 'Ma X', or plural, 'Mes X'. whereas in english, without genders, but with plurals, we always just say "my". So in french, the object apprehended augments the way the subject is said. I wonder if this might lead to a greater understanding of the inter-relation between subject and object. then again, Descartes was a frenchmen, so maybe not.

that's it for now.

a bientot, mon ami!

Requiescat MJ

"No telephone message arrived, but the butler went without his sleep and waited for it until four o'clock—until long after there was any one to give it to if it came. I have an idea that Gatsby himself didn't believe it would come, and perhaps he no longer cared. If that was true he must have felt that he had lost the old warm world, paid a high price for living too long with a single dream. He must have looked up at an unfamiliar sky through frightening leaves and shivered as he found what a grotesque thing a rose is and how raw the sunlight was on the scarcely created grass. A new world, material without being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted fortuitously about...like that ashen, fantastic figure gliding toward him through the amorphous trees."

Not making any claims of analogy or interpretation, only that this is one of many things I thought of last Friday morning.

I think what is so sad about the whole business is the way it foregrounds the essential sadness of the man's life, makes it seem to us that each glittering and wretched move was all the time arranged around some unfulfilled yearning, some lost or never-had thing. It's painfully easy now to see the child forced to be a man, the man so calculating and yet dumbly earnest in his presentation of a child. And, somewhere in there, an astonishing, god-bestowed gift that was somehow swallowed up and made to serve when it should have been served. It becomes pathetic in every sense, and certainly there is pathos here.

But here's what else I'm thinking. I'm thinking that lust comes in myriad forms and not all of them bad. I'm thinking of the shame and joy of the body, of its plasticity. Of horrible, thoughtless jokes I heard in fourth grade and laughed unthinkingly at. Of sheen. That zoos can work two ways and that fatherhood is a sacred charge not to be fucked with. That the American self is a bizarre and fluid and frail construct. Of sweat and ingenuity, of the meaning of the word "synthesizer." That self-love and -loathing can appear so alike as to be impossible to separate. That longing can take many forms. For example: a fedora, a chimp, a blinding white glove. That time really is a function of space. Of flashing legs and neon pavement, of an elastic miracle of a voice, a bassline and a shove. And above all of a human body in perpetual spin, dip, shuck, and jive, at once liquid and mechanical, a cold, coruscating flame alive and still weirdly false with the bliss and, yes, thrill of motion.

A Renascence

Conceptual Art Idea: A bookcase full of pages. Ideally the pages are bound in little narrow hardback volumes, but the idea of just a bunch of loose pages has a certain aesthetic appeal, too. These pages contain the sections of books that are commonly cut or removed from "abridged" or children's editions of the same. Call it "The Unnecessary Library." The variety would be fascinating: the boring and the grotesque would both be here, passages alike only in their alleged superfluity. You could organize it by country or by chronology, see what different cultures have considered extraneous. Some of the cuttings would be simple fragments, a few sentences and paragraphs, side observations. Others would be whole stories in their own right, entire characters and plot lines plucked up like root systems. If you wanted to get hamfisted, you could focus on pages edited out by the censors of one dictatorial government or another, though I think that might be a little silly and Cold Warrish, itself unnecessary.

Hello again (still the problem of who I'm addressing). Things have been dormant here lately, for which I take exactly one half of the blame. More to come.

Geoff Manaugh keeps his head

In honor of Ben's and my "defending the overdog" habit, I wanted to link to this post from BLDGBLOG, in which Geoff very sensibly and thoroughly cuts the legs off of several cultural commentators' high horses re the Twitter fuss. Excellent stuff.

conundrum

I do want to respond to Ben's last post (and I must say that though it can look dangerously like neglect, I really like the leisurely pace of conversation on this blog), but in the meantime, here is a poser:

At eighteen I can drive and smoke and vote, but I am almost certainly not an adult. At nineteen, I am much the same. Ditto for twenty. At twenty-one, perhaps I have an off-campus place; I pay rent, I pay bills, I cook, albeit haltingly; perhaps I have even developed a talent for sex. I am Into Wine and foreign films; I read The Economist. Now am I an adult? Or have I just become better at pretending? Now I am twenty-three, I have graduated, have a job, am living with friends and am really paying taxes and earning my keep and am starting to less secretly fight the fact that I want to go home, that I am waiting for summer vacation. Am I an adult now? What about at twenty-five? Thirty? When I'm married? When I'm divorced?

Not saying I subscribe to this mindset, and I'm as sick as anyone of cultural commentators griping about "extended adolescence," but I do see this as a salient concern among (white, financially stable, well-educated)* folks in our generation. And it's a bit different from "extended adolescence," the self-indulgent nostalgia of the baby boomers, because it isn't that we (and I use the collective first person solely for rhetoric's sake) don't want to grow up, it's that we don't know how. It may be that because our parents willfully avoided maturity, we lack its vocabulary, its motions, and so we're kind of circling an idea, trying to work with signifiers (enter alcohol**). It's a sort of feeling of adrift-ness.

Now, this is nothing new. Sartre and Wordsworth, among others, spoke of a similar feeling, though theirs is, if I read them right, a bit more founded in some spiritual/metaphysical Angst. And, while I am sympathetic, I don't totally condone these feelings in young people. (Listen to me: "young people." Who am I kidding!) After all, they're responsible for Garden State. Then again, they're also why we have the National, so it's not all bad.

I don't know, I'm just kicking all this around in my head. Am I right? I hope that there are those who graduate or grow up and actually take a kind of joy in maturing; I've seen it in some of my friends, come to think of it.

*though it may be more prevalent than that

**or, at Wheaton, marriage

(sorry for the lame DFW imitation, but I do like how footnotes allow for side conversations and something like comic timing)

5,4,3,2, and...ACTION!!!

It has been too long since I've posted, methinks -
what can I say, confluences (of thought) come when they will, and they go away...
that said: still have no idea quite what Mark's getting at in his Odyssean reflections. Other than this: perhaps he/you (again, the problem of who are we addressing in this blog) are pointing to two contrasting pictures of the ontological nature of art - we do not know which in any piece being made, but hopefully it's the 'around-the-tree' kind? and the tree is God?
yep, that's about all I got on that -time for some of my own:

So, I've been thinking about this idea of 'direction'. Direction in the sense of how the word is used in the theater. Now, there are good directors and then there are bad "directors". What differentiates the two is whether they are giving directions, or whether they are giving destinations - two very different things: A destination is where an actor is supposed to be (physically or emotionally) in a given scene, sadly, many people in the role of director only know how to give these - "be angry", "you love her", "stand further away", etc. Things that, if realized, may very well make a scene more theatrically compelling, but statements that leave an actor somewhat paralyzed. How can one 'be angry'? Sure I can pretend, and that is one vaild way of approaching a certain type of presentational theater, but if it is a realist drama (life-like, and so of import to this thought) - it's not very helpful. Compare this with actual 'directions' which, like when driving a car, are steps one takes to get to where one needs to be (Turn Left, go 3 miles, etc.): "Intimidate him!", "stay as far away as possible", "pretend he has a gun in his back pocket", etc. Statements like these can actually guide an actor into action (interesting what the words reveal - actor, not be-er) and that action can facilitate a certain emotional response or real relationship.
An example of where such principles apply in the real world:
On occasion I have been told, "you are a good man". When this happens, I become uncomfortable, because it is not helpful. If they had said "that was a good deed", changing the verb from 'to be' to 'to do', then I would politely say thank you, but as it stands, what can I say? My pauline understanding of selfhood does not allow me to believe that I am an inherantly 'good' man. Furthermore, even if I believe what others might say about me to be true, and not my own dogma, I am not certain that it would lead me to more good acts, so if goodness was what they wanted to encourage they would then have failed. I know that what you call someone determines how they act - the classic example of the child who is told they are stupid and consequently does poorly in school, despite standard intelligence. However, I think this naming-forming language is only really efficacious in childhood, it is after all developmental psychology. As an adult, i think to be affirmed as good, would lead to a contentment, a resting on the laurels, analgous to what catharsis in the theater might accomplish - satisfaction of emotional compulsion disipating impetus for action (Brecht).
In this example specifically, I think 'goodness' is unattainable (again, protestant theology infuses my thoughts here, but this doesn't nullify their validity, Mark, plus it's nice and po-mo to speak of the unattainability of things, so don't even thing about challenging this point), since it is not a static thing - it looks different in every different situation in every moment. Thus it is always something to be strived for. Plus, If I do not have a platonic view of a metaphysically grounded self, I am left only with a self defined by my actions. Therefore, only if next time I am presented with a chance to do good and I do it can I be called 'good', but then there will be another 'next time' (ad infinitum).

I guess i am just interested in leaving the people I am communicating with possibilites of action - Not to confine them to a set course, not to tell them to change, or stay the same - a richer and more varied affirmation of humanity.

A question

How often are foreign films retranslated? Is it a big deal when they are? Who are the Peavear/Volokhonskys of the film world, and who are its Constance Garnetts? Why is it that though I am picky and opinionated about translations of Rilke, Homer, or the Bible, I simply accept that I'm getting "correct" versions of Bergman, Jeunet, or Godard?

On a parenthetical note, this may be the most pretentious thing I've ever posted here.

Chagall Mosaic

It might be a New Jerusalem—
These folks shimmer and laugh, scratch
The sky with fiddle tunes;

But what of that bird-woman, the baby wedged in her breasts?
What of that monstrous leviathan tail
Sinking under the dharma sun?

As the tree that grew from your spine uncoils,
You watch the boats list on the fiery lake.

The works of loom and adze

In Ben's last post, he clarified the difference between 'arcadian' and 'utopian,' as defined by Dr. Jacobs in our Auden class last year. It reminded me of another dichotomy from that class, the idea that the Aeneid, as opposed to the Odyssey, is the true Christian epic. The pattern of the Odyssey is circular—the object is to return home, to restore things as they were. The Aeneid, on the other hand, is linear and nonrepetitive, we are going somewhere new. The idea is that as devastating as our losses may be, something immeasurably better can be gained: Troy was sacked that Rome might be founded. Ben is right, it's not "behold, I make all things just like they were," but "I make all things new." A classic Protestant euphemism for "died" is "called home" or some such phrase, but it should really be "called forth."

All true, but nonetheless I have for years held an affinity for the Odyssey that I still haven't really figured out. I think part of it is due to the fact that I'm a sucker for the idea of going home (e.g. I tear up every time I read "when you have to go there, they have to take you in" in Frost's "Death of the Hired Man"). I've been thinking a lot about the end of the Odyssey lately, specifically about the two works of art we encounter there.

The first is Penelope's infamous shroud, which she tells a disguised Odysseus about in Book XIX (from Robert Fagles' unparalleled translation):

I yearn for Odysseus, always, my heart pines away.
They rush the marriage on, and I spin out my wiles.
A god from the blue it was inspired me first
to set up a great loom in our royal halls
and I began to weave, and the weaving finespun,
the yarns endless, and I would lead them on: "Young men,
my suitors, now that King Odysseus is no more,
go slowly, keen as you are to marry me, until
I can finish off this web,
so my weaving won't all fray and come to nothing"....

So by day I'd weave at my great and growing web—
by night, by the light of the torches set beside me,
I would unravel all I'd done.

This is a cyclical, potentially endless enterprise, and one all too familiar to me, to all of us. We are constantly having to undo things we've done or redo what has come unraveled. It reminds me of Laura Miller's appreciation of DFW in Salon, where she speaks of "the discipline and of the abrading, daily labor" that true humility requires. Penelope's shroud mirrors the way we must continually fight back our own instincts toward self-aggrandizement, how we strive to actually be caring and sincere rather than merely appearing to be. But it might also be the cycle of sin and penance or any number of things. The point is that there is no end in sight to this work, it is as regular as doing the dishes.

Moreover, Penelope has no idea why she's doing this, to what end. She doesn't know whether her husband will be back, doesn't know if these suitors will ever leave. She's hoping they'll get bored, that she can wait them out, but who knows? She weaves, I think, to distract her mind and her hands, to give herself something to do. As good a reason as any, but one that seems kind of hollow and pointless, a constant suspension.

But then there's the other piece of handiwork. To set the scene: in Book XXIII, after Odysseus has mercilessly butchered the suitors and revealed his true identity to his wife, Penelope (grown understandably skeptical in twenty years) puts him to the test. She asks a servant to move their marriage bed out for them, at which point Odysseus gets pissed. By way of explanation, he tells this story:

There was a branching olive-tree inside our court,
grown to its full prime, the bole like a column, thickset.
Around it I built my bedroom, finished off the walls
with good tight stonework, roofed it over soundly
and added doors, hung well and snugly wedged.
Then I lopped the leafy crown of the olive,
clean-cutting the stump bare from roots up,
planing it round with a bronze smoothing-adze—
I had the skill—I shaped into plumb to the line to make
my bedpost, bored the holes it needed with an auger.
Working from there I built my bed, start to finish...
That's our secret sign, I tell you, our life story!
Does the bed, my lady, still stand planted firm?"

This knowledge is the couple's shibboleth, the way in which Odysseus and Penelope know that the long strands of their respective stories have finally rejoined. The trunk of the olive tree runs through the center of their house, their marriage, and, by extension, the whole poem. It is the great immovable pole around which Odysseus revolved through all his wanderings. And its rootedness stands in contrast to Penelope's "great and growing web."

What the bedpost stands for, I don't know. But if the shroud is real, perhaps the bedpost is as well—a great unassailable Something that anchors what we do. I haven't yet wrapped my head around the enormous implications of this—though they are both thrilling and frightening—but, as they did for Penelope, they allow me to continue my daily weaving and unweaving with a renewed vigor and hope.