Love Is

Love—what is love
Is it a thing that you can touch
No but it is a thing that you can feel
Is it a thing that you can see
No but it is a thing that you can watch
Is it a thing that you can hear
No but is a thing that listens
Is it a thing that you can buy
No but is a thing that gives
Love—what is love
Love—love is
Love is the springing of spring and
The singing of summer and
The falling of autumn and
The cold coming of winter
Love—love is wine aged
A bird uncaged
Love is fire forged steel
Love is flames leaping and
Love is pulsing embers
Love is a cord not easily broken
It is a living a dying
It is joy and trying and
Sleeping and weeping
Love—love is a deep rooted tree
Love is you and me
Me for you
You for me
You me
I you
We two
We

The Beggar

The old woman walked down the cobble-stoned street resting heavily on her cane. The sun was setting, and it case a red-orange light across St. Peter’s Square, which was her destination. Her progress was slow due to her clubbed feet, and the leather bag slung over her shoulder looked like it might drive her into the ground. She was small, not more than three feet tall, and hunched as if a heavy cross were on her shoulders. So small was her stature, in face, and so bent over was she, that her face could not be seen. Her clothes and her headscarf looked as worn out and tired as she did.

She proceeded slowly up the street towards St. Peter’s Square, like a weary pilgrim approaching the gates of heaven. Finally, she reached the square where tourists were throwing bread crumbs and popcorn to the pigeons in the glow of the evening sun. When the ancient woman became visible, a certain awe fell on the tourists gathered there, and many pointed and whispered. Some, moved by compassion at the woman’s great age and obvious physical deformity, immediately moved towards her and deposited some coins in her shrunken hand. A man with a camera, who looked very American with his baseball cap and fanny pack, began to follow the old woman, hoping for a good shot.

A middle-aged woman and her son stopped and knelt down and began to pray with the old woman. Surely one so old in years, who had borne a thousand burdens and said ten thousand Aves in the shadow of the Holy See must be close to the heart of God and the Blessed Virgin. After praying, they gave her a few small coins and stood solemnly. The mother whispered a few admonitions in the small child’s ear and crossed herself as they watched the old woman limp onward towards the center of the square. Pigeons flapped into a cloud around her.

She finally reached her destination–the steps of St. Peter’s Basilica–and knelt to pray. She knelt slowly and painfully, and placed her head on the steps as if she were kissing them. All the while, merciful passers-by were depositing coins around her, some crossing themselves. The photographer stood at a distance, snapping photos.

The sky above continued to draw down its blinds, and the people went about their business. In time, she rose slowly to her feet. She was so close to the ground when standing that it was not difficult for her to retrieve the coins and bills around her. She gathered them unhurriedly and placed them into the bag on her back. The sun had sunk very low and the horizon burned like glowing embers.

When she had finished collecting the coins, the old woman began the journey back to wherever she had come from. The photographer, obviously moved by the scene, still stood at a distance watching the old woman recede into the shadows. He had finally gotten a photograph that satisfied him, and he couldn’t wait to share it. “She comes here almost every day,” said a middle-aged Italian man with a silver mustache who had appeared by the photographer’s side, “She is very devout.” The photographer was startled from his reverie. “Yes, she must be. I wonder if she is a saint,” he said half honestly.

“Perhaps an angel,” said the other man with a twinkle in his eye. The old woman disappeared from sight.

After leaving the square, the old woman retread to a small, quiet side street where few people were. The sun was almost completely extinguished now, and a red glow on the horizon was all that remained. The shadows grew long. Finally, the old woman stopped. She paused, glanced left, then right, and disappeared into an impossibly thin alley. There was a man waiting in the shadows. He looked weary and aged himself, but he was not ancient. His silver mustache rose into a grin at the site of the old woman, and he asked, “How’d you do today, mi bambino?”

The old woman straightened up, removing the head scarf to reveal the youthful face of a dark-skinned, brown-eyed boy, about eleven or twelve years old. “Good Papa! I made 60 Euros today,” he said, beaming proudly and handing his father a handful of coins and a few bills. “Good,” said the man, placing his hand gently on the child’s shoulder as they proceeded deeper into the alley, “We shall eat well tonight.”

A Pen’s Personality

I first discovered the pleasure of a good pen my freshman year at Bob Jones University. The manager of the bookstore, a short, round, balding man who always carried at least 5 fountain pens in his shirt pocket, decided to share his love of writing instruments. He installed three large glass cases filled with fountain pens of varying prices. I’m not sure why—it doesn’t make much sense to offer pens costing anywhere from $30-$500 to college students. I suppose he couldn’t help himself. I’m glad he did, anyway. I would go and stare for a half hour at a time, examining the varying styles, their finish and polish, asking to look at some of them, and trying them out. Some were hand painted with designs and patterns; some were made of colorful woods; some were titanium. Some looked stately, others homely. They were all heavy and solid. I began saving bits of my meager paycheck so I could buy one. Shortly thereafter, the bookstore decided to put on a “pen fair” to showcase its products to the public and inform it that not all pens cost a few cents. He invited vendors of fine writing instruments from the surrounding area—one even brought a $10,000 pen made from hand-carved mammoth ivory.

My friends couldn’t understand my fascination with pens—how could anyone like them enough to pay the price of a video game, or more, for one? I suppose my attraction to quality pens goes back to my love of writing. For most of human history, writers have used pens. They have varied in shape and kind—anything from a wooden stylus used to write in clay, to a feather—but they were all pens. It is only in the last 50 or so years that keyboards have pushed pens out of the picture. There is a sense of history, of tradition, that accompanies writing with a good pen.

But beyond that, I like them for the same reason I like old houses with crown moldings, wood floors, and leaded glass; for the same reason I like old cars that are made of real metal; for the same reason I love musty books and leather journals—I like fine pens because they have character. Now, you may ask, what is character? That’s a difficult thing to answer. Character is an intangible quality that separates something from other things of its kind. It’s what makes things unique. But it’s more than that—I suppose it’s akin to personality. Things with character live for generations—they weather many storms and get better with age. Things with character are what give antique stores their ethos. You don’t throw away something with character—you preserve it. Or at least you should.

Character has value. In an era and mass production, most things are cheap, fast, and sterile. They are made to work and to wear out. They are made to attract the eye, but not to keep its attention. Their attractiveness is skin-deep. When they are gone, they will be forgotten. I believe the loss of quality in everything from houses, to cars, to, yes, even pens, says something important about our culture. It tells me we have lost our soul as a civilization, and we are more concerned with the moment than with the past or the future. We will buy anything, as long as it looks good now. But will anyone in the distant future look back and admire what we’ve done? Will anything we’ve produced last that long?

If we’re honest, we will admit we desire something more. The love of character goes back to the desire, rooted deep in the human heart, for the unique, the beautiful, the lasting. Now no one thing can satisfy that desire, (a pen certainly can’t), but things with character—even small things—are pieces of the puzzle. There is a certain pleasure in permanence, and we endeavor to create a sense of it. We surround ourselves with things that are familiar and unique—things that reflect something about our own nature. Our culture has lost that, to some degree. We have traded the lasting for the exciting, and we have been looking for a substitute ever since.

Take the example of the cheap plastic pen. It doesn’t help you write, it doesn’t encourage you—it fights you. You have to scribble roughly on paper to get the ink to even begin flowing, and once it does, you have to press hard to get it to continue. You can’t write with one for very long before your hand starts to cramp and you give up. No wonder keyboards are preferred.
But take a quality pen in hand and touch it to the paper—immediately the ink begins to flow, and if you’re not careful, it might create an unsightly splotch. When you begin to write, the pen glides across the paper effortlessly. The weight of the pen presses down for you, and you feel as if you could write for hours. All the while, you are aware that a craftsman made this pen, and, even though it may be similar to others, it is unique. It will survive for posterity. The difference between a cheap pen and a pen with character is the difference between a Geo Metro and an original Ford GT 40. It’s a world of difference—and it’s worth paying for.

Thy Decay Shall Bloom Again: An Exposition

The following essay is an exposition of Gerard Manley Hopkins’ poem, “The Leaden Echo and the Golden Echo.” Please take the time to read this poem before you read the essay, or the essay will be nonsensical!

“Entrust Truth, whatsoever thou hast from Truth, and thou shalt lose nothing” said St. Augustine, and in so saying, he articulated the theme of Gerard Manley Hopkins musical poem, “The Leaden Echo and the Golden Echo.” In this poem, Hopkins explores the nature of beauty and life, and man’s unceasing quest to preserve both. Instead of simply telling the reader his conclusions, however, he shows the reader the problem and the solution in the form of a parable, leaving the reader to decide which course to take.

Understanding the significance of the poem’s subtitle is helpful in comprehending the meaning of the poem. First, the subtitle tells the reader that the poem is discussing maidens, young girls, who are singing at a well called St. Winifred’s. Second, the subtitle gives the setting of the poem, St. Winifred’s well, which tells the reader what the maidens are seeking. St. Winifred’s well is a Catholic sacred site in Holywell, Wales, a site which is purported to have miraculous healing powers. According to legend, the well sprung up at the site where St. Winifred was beheaded by her attempted rapist. Winifred was restored to life, however, at the prayers of her uncle, Beuno, and consequently spent the rest of her life as a nun. Winifred’s well is significant to this poem for two reasons: as the setting, it indicates that the the maidens are seeking healing; and second, the dedication of St. Winifred is set forth as an example and a cure to the despairing maidens.

Hopkins begins his parable by demonstrating the hopelessness of a life not given to God in the desperate plea of the maidens in “The Leaden Echo”. The maidens, who are the speakers in this stanza, are young and beautiful. They know, though, that their youth and beauty will not last, and some are already beginning to see the appearance of “sad and stealing messengers of grey”– indicators of the onset of aging. These indicators tell them that their beauty will soon be stolen by relentless time, so they seek a cure. The maidens have heard of St. Winifred’s well and its miraculous healing powers, and have come hoping to be healed from age. It is likely that they think the well is a fountain of youth. When they discover that the well cannot heal them, however, they ask, “Is there ány any, is there . . . nowhere known some, bow or / brooch or braid or brace, láce, latch or catch or key to keep / Back beauty, keep…beauty…from vanishing away?”(1-3).

The question of the maidens transcends just them, however, and their appeal is symbolic of mankind’s timeless quest to reverse the curse of the Fall through magic and science. The name of the poem and subsequently the stanzas are indicative of this as well, as the references to lead and gold refer to the ancient pseudo-science of alchemy. For centuries, alchemists sought a way by which to turn lead into gold, to turn the worthless into the priceless. Moreover, most alchemists also sought a mythical potion called the Elixir of Life, which was supposed to grant anyone who imbibed it immortality. It is transformation and immortality then, that mankind, symbolized by the maidens, seeks.

Hopkins continues his parable by showing the fruitlessness of seeking to preserve physical beauty through natural means in the reply that is echoed back to the maidens question. The leaden echo responds, saying that nothing exists to preserve youth and beauty, and harshly tells the maidens that, if they are wise, they will simply despair of keeping them: “No there ’s none, there ’s none, O no there ’s none, / Nor can you long be, what you now are, called fair, / Do what you may do, what, do what you may, / And wisdom is early to despair” (6-9). The stanza closes poignantly, describing the “despair, despair, despair” (19) that the maidens experience when they realize that the beauty and youth they value so much cannot be preserved.

Hopkins has powerfully shown the plight of those who seek to preserve their beauty through physical means and so concludes with the cure to mankind’s great dilemma of transformation and immortality. In “The Golden Echo”, he presents how the leaden can be made golden, how the corruptible can be made incorruptible. While it is uncertain who the speaker in the second stanza is, it appears that it is St. Winifred herself, as the speaker makes mention of her own fleeting feminine beauty as a point of commonality with the maidens: “whatever’s prized and passes of us, everything that’s fresh and fast flying of us . . . ” (23). The fact that the setting is Winifred’s well strongly suggests this also.

She beings by comforting the maidens, telling them to “spare” their cries of grief. She fully gains their attention in saying that she knows of a cure, but that it is “not within seeing of the sun”– that is, it is not physical. All that is beautiful and feminine, she continues, can be preserved, but only in giving it away. Suddenly, her reply turns into a request, even a challenge, to the maidens to give their beauty “back . . . to God, beauty’s self and beauty’s giver” (35). She then points to herself as an example of God’s preserving care, saying, “see; not a hair is, not an eyelash, not the least lash lost; every hair / Is, hair of the head, numbered” (36-37).

Unfortunately, the maidens do not understand and do not believe Winifred’s testimony, and therefore say that, if they give beauty and youth up so freely, it will certainly pass away and leave them with nothing: “Nay, what we had lighthanded left in surly the mere mould / Will have waked and have waxed and have walked with the wind what while we slept . . . ” (38-39). St. Winifred responds wearily that, if beauty must be given up either way, why not give it up to the One who can preserve it for us far better than we could preserve it for ourselves: “O then, weary then / Why when the thing we freely fórfeit is kept with fonder a care…than we could have kept it…(and we, we should have lost it)” (42-45). Still skeptical, the maidens ask, “Where kept? Do but tell us where kept, where” (46). St. Winifred, points simply to the sky and says, “Yonder” (47.) Finally, it begins to dawn on the maidens that Winifred is speaking of a spiritual, other worldly means of preserving vitality and beauty: “What high as that! We follow, now we follow” (47).

Hopkins has now concluded his parable and leaves the decision of the maidens uncertain. This inconclusive ending allows the reader to decide whether or not God, the author of beauty, is a good enough keeper of it. Hopkins’ own conclusion, however, is clear, and his poem’s theme echoes, quite literally, the words of Christ in Matthew 16:25, “For whoever desires to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for My sake will find it.”

Hopkins’ poem creatively and powerfully communicates an answer to a timeless question. More than an answer, though, this poem is really a plea, a plea to give youth and beauty to God, the source of both. Only in doing this can one be transformed into something incorruptible, eternal, and beautiful. St. Augustine said it best when he said, “Entrust Truth, whatsoever thou hast from Truth, and thou shalt lose nothing; and thy decay shall bloom again, and all thy diseases be healed, and they mortal parts be reformed and renewed, and bound around thee: nor shall they lay thee whither themselves descend; but they shall stand fast with thee, and abide for ever before God, who abideth and standeth fast for ever.” Indeed, the resurrection of the dead upon Christ’s return is the only means by which beauty can be restored and preserved eternally. The prerequisite to this resurrection, though, is a complete surrender to God and a presentation of the body “as a living sacrifice” to Him (Romans 12:1). Immortality, then, comes at a high price– the price of a life given to the service of its Creator. It is wisely, then, that Hopkins’ allows the reader, as Winifred allows the maidens, to count the cost.

Nothing New Under the Sun

I like antique shops, and I blame my father. Through my growing up years, my dad would often take my brother and me to them—musty buildings that smelled aged and made me sneeze. To a boy whose chief occupations were Batman and Star Trek, the experience was painful.

One of my dad’s favorite stores was the Fox Skylight Gallery of Antiques. Residing inside what was once the W. F. Krummbach Paint Factory, the store is as antique as the things it houses. It’s three stories high, too, a nightmare for young boys who’d rather be playing Sega Genesis. We went there often, making the floor creak as we browsed. When I asked my dad why he liked antiques, he said something like, “It’s nostalgic.” I didn’t know what that meant, but I knew it didn’t mean fun.

Now I understand. In a culture that values things that look good but don’t last long, it’s refreshing to see things that have survived the trials of time. The Skylight Gallery of Antiques is like a museum that you can buy. It’s one thing to read about World War II or watch a scholarly documentary about it, but to touch a scarred and pock-marked helmet that was a part of the action—that’s special.

I say handle and touch because something about touch makes old things feel real. I can stare at something behind a glass case and still feel 200 years distant from it. But to touch it is to understand that someone else from another time did too. The Skylight Gallery of Antiques lets you touch the past.

Realizing the things of the past aren’t just pictures in books, but real things, is fun. This isn’t the only reason I enjoy the Fox Skylight Gallery, though. A certain aura of pathos there reminds you that now is not the only time people have lived, loved, and lost. It is a feeling of connection to the human experience.

My imagination constructs people, places, and stories for interesting things I see. A faded wedding dress represents the joy of one couple’s wedding day; a dented toy car represents hours of entertainment for some little boy (perhaps it was his prized possession); a worker’s paycheck from two centuries ago speaks of labor and a family provided for. Everything has a story.

The building, too, speaks of lives and labor. While it has undergone changes over the years, those who transitioned it from a paint factory to an antique shop were careful to leave its personality intact. Massive drums that once held paint are still suspended from the ceiling, the worn wood flooring remains, and the original window panes still give view to the leaden sky of Milwaukee. These things speak of average men doing average work in average town. But average does not mean uninteresting.

Even the ugly things, like the ugly furniture of the 60’s, are interesting simply because they were a part of someone’s life. Like souvenirs from another country are special because of where they are from, the things are not special because of what they are, but when they’re from.

Going to the Fox Skylight Gallery of Antiques keeps me from chronological snobbery. It keeps me from thinking that now is the best time, and everyone in the past must have been more two dimensional and somehow less human. It reminds me that there is no truly new thing. Times change, but people don’t. Wise Solomon of millennia ago acknowledged this truth, when he began his book of Ecclesiastes with these words: “The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be; and that which is done is that which shall be done: and there is no new thing under the sun. Is there any thing whereof it may be said, See, this is new? It hath been already of old time, which was before us.”

In the Bleak Midwinter

In the bleak mid-winter
Frosty wind made moan,
Earth stood hard as iron,
Water like a stone;
Snow had fallen, snow on snow,
Snow on snow,
In the bleak mid-winter
Long ago.

Our God, Heaven cannot hold Him
Nor earth sustain;
Heaven and earth shall flee away
When He comes to reign:
In the bleak mid-winter
A stable-place sufficed
The Lord God Almighty,
Jesus Christ.

Angels and archangels
May have gathered there,
Cherubim and seraphim
Thronged the air,
But only His mother1
In her maiden bliss,
Worshipped the Beloved
With a kiss.

What can I give Him,
Poor as I am?
If I were a shepherd
I would bring a lamb,
If I were a wise man
I would do my part,
Yet what I can I give Him,
Give my heart.

-Christina Rosetti

Love Came Down At Christmas

This is my new favorite Christmas song!

Love came down at Christmas,
Love all lovely, love divine;
Love was born at Christmas: 
Star and angels gave the sign.

Worship we the Godhead,
Love incarnate, love divine;
Worship we our Jesus,
But wherewith the sacred sign?

Love shall be our token;
Love be yours and love be mine,
Love to God and to all men,
Love for plea and gift and sign.

-Christina Rossetti

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

I haven’ t posted here in some time due to the business of life. My apologies. Enjoy this famous and superb poem by T.S. Eliot.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question…
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair -
(They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin -
(They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”)
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all -
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all -
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all -
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet – and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all” -
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.”
That is not it, at all.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor -
And this, and so much more? -
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous -
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old…
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Morse

Tuckett. Bill Tuckett. Telegraph operator, Hall’s creek,
which is way out back of the Outback, but he stuck it,
quite likely liked it, despite heat, glare, dust, and the lack
of diversion of doctors. Come disaster you trusted to luck,
ingenuity and pluck. This was back when nice people said pluck,
the sleevelink and green eyeshade epoch.
Faced, though, like Bill Tuckett
with a man needing surgery right on the spot, a lot
would have done their dashes. It looked hopeless (dot dot dot)
Lift him up on the table, said Tuckett, running the key hot
till Head Office turned up a doctor who coolly instructed
up a thousand miles of wire, as Tuckett advanced slit by slit
with a safety razor blade, pioneering on into the wet,
copper-wiring the rivers off, in the first operation conducted
along dotted lines, with rum drinkers gripping the patient:
d-d-dash it, take care. Tuck!
And the vital spark stayed unshorted.
Yallah! breathed the camelmen. Tuckett, you did it, you did it!
cried the spattered la-de-dah jodhpur-wearing inspector of Stock.
We imagine, some weeks later, a properly laconic
convalescent averring Without you, I’d have kicked the bucket…

From Chungking to Burrenjuck, morse keys have mostly gone silent
and only old men meet now to chit-chat in their electric
bygone dialect. The last letter many will forget
its dit-dit-dit-dah, V for Victory. The coders’ hero has speed,
resource and a touch. So ditditdit daah for Bill Tuckett.

-Les Murray

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