Pie in the sky

January 28, 2009

Pie in the sky

"'Hope is the thing with feathers'; present joy is the kid with the slingshot." - Anonymous

When the radio isn’t about money, it’s about another aspect of the future, weather or political strategy. What will the markets do? or the western wind? What will happen – especially in terms of public opinion – if the president . . . ?

       Who knows? Only the radio . . . and the TV and wherever else pundits gather; for not even the gods gathered on Olympus can be certain. At least that's the way the conversation I have Horace’s tu ne quaesieris turns out. This is A. S. Kline’s translation. (For his renderings of the odes in Greek meters, click here.) 

Leuconöe, don’t ask, we never know what fate the gods [will] grant us,

That is, if the gods grant our fates and are not subjects of Fate themselves, if Fortuna has not always been their queen as well.  Don't ask what fate the gods will grant us,

whether your fate or mine, don’t waste your time on Babylonian,

futile calculations . . .

 

As if you could calculate what will happen next, given time enough and fine enough instruments.  How can you, if the gods themselves don’t know for certain.

                                                                            Babylonian,

futile calculations.  How much better to suffer what happens,

whatever it may be or may not be, for nothing may happen, the world may end first.

                                                                   better to suffer what happens,

whether Jupiter gives us more winters or this is the last one,
. . . .
Be wise, and mix the wine, since time is short . . . .

  

Short for any of us, even for all of us.  “Time like an ever-rolling stream bears all its sons away” and its daughters – like the dinosaurs and dodos.

Be wise, and mix the wine . . . limit that far-reaching hope.

Far-reaching or over-reaching?  Hope always overreaches, it tries to overtake us and to take over the now and to make us live somewhere – or somewhen – else we cannot know.  Hope is like nostalgia, only worse.  Instead of errant memories it peddles arrant fantasy.

The envious moment is flying now, now, while we’re speaking:

Seize the day, place in the hours that are coming as little faith as you can.

Seize the day. Drink in the air, drink the wine, grab a hand. As for tomorrow, place in it "as little faith as you can" - none, if you dare. It has no smell, no taste, no touch at all.

W