"He studied Latin like the violin, because he liked it." ~Robert Frost.

Languages intrigue me.

I sometimes wonder why I never began studying another language seriously before this semester. Currently, I'm enjoying Latin. Actually, I'm probably enjoying it more than is strictly necessary. And I am determined to turn my mind to learning Old English, as well. I have no idea when, of course. But there are books available for self-teaching. I think once I've had a semester of Latin, many more doors will be open to me.

The study of linguistics is often called philology, I think. Did you know that J.R.R. Tolkien was a philologist? He knew so many languages, not to mention the many he created! That man is one of my heroes. I'm going to study Quenya, the language of the Elves of Middle-Earth. I know, I know, it's not a "real" language -- but does the fact that it is not spoken naturally here on earth that it isn't a real language?

There are so many languages I want to learn. German is one of them, for sure. Old English. Latin (which I'm so glad to finally be able to say I've started!). Old Norse would be really cool. And I love Gaelic. Italian is another I'd love to learn, if only for the sake of reading Dante's Divine Comedy in the original poetry. (No, my love affair with that classic work has not dissipated any.) I would also love to master Japanese, but I think I'll stick with knowing a few words and characters here and there. I pick stuff up from manga and anime anyway. The only language I do not care to learn is Spanish. This is probably because it's becoming so ridiculously prominent here in America that I just don't like it. And besides, once I know some Latin, making the transition to Spanish might not be too hard.

What is it about the formation of languages that fascinates me so? Letters which form words which form sentences which form ideas. Expression. Just so much to think about! I guess I just want to expand my knowledge of the world, and knowing foreign languages is such a stepping stone to what is beyond the borders of my tiny corner of it.

Dante can go to Hell...oh wait, he already did!

Time for a personal post!

That's right, dear followers (of whom there aren't many...), I am updating. Mainly to avoid some of the mountain of homework that I really must complete sometime in the near future. The weather is absolutely beautiful outside, but I'm inside sitting at my desk. At least my window is open.

As for the title of this post, I want to explain that I have nothing against Dante Alighieri, nor against his Divine Comedy. It just seemed an appropriate title because I'm taking a class on the book; thus, a research paper is in the making (writing?), per the professor's requirements. Also, remembering the circles of Hell that Dante the Pilgrim sees in the Inferno is....hell.

Sorry, that's a rather hellish pun.

So was that.

And for proof that I truly am a literature nerd, this is what I'm currently reading as my not-schoolwork-book: The Dante Club, by Matthew Pearl. Literary murder mystery, starring Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, Oliver Wendell Holmes, James Russell Lowell, and other major figures of literary fame. Did you know Longfellow was the first American to translate The Divine Comedy? I want a copy of his translation now. It's probably epic.

Before picking up this glorious novel by Matthew Pearl, I did not know much of the poetry of James Russell Lowell. Actually, I only really knew the poetry and writings of Longfellow. So, I decided to look up some writings by the other guys. I shall leave you with this poem, even though it is not yet April:

MAY IS A PIOUS FRAUD

by: James Russell Lowell (1819-1891)

AY is a pious fraud of the almanac.

A ghastly parody of real Spring

Shaped out of snow and breathed with eastern wind;

Or if, o'er-confident, she trust the date,

And, with her handful of anemones,

Herself as shivery, steal into the sun,

The season need but turn his hour-glass round,

And Winter suddenly, like crazy Lear,

Reels back, and brings the dead May in his arms,

Her budding breasts and wan dislustred front

With frosty streaks and drifts of his white beard

All overblown. Then, warmly walled with books,

While my wood-fire supplies the sun's defect,

Whispering old forest-sagas in its dreams,

I take my May down from the happy shelf

Where perch the world's rare song-birds in a row,

Waiting my choice to upen with full breast,

And beg an alms of springtime, ne'er denied

Indoors by vernal Chaucer, whose fresh woods

Throb thick with merle and mavis all the years.

"May is a Pious Fraud" is reprinted from Under the Willows and Other Poems. James Russell Lowell. Boston: Fields Osgood & Co., 1869.