There's a market for such trinkets. Maybe Purdy is such a vendor. I do not know but remain curious. The manufacture of biblical artifacts and their sale among collectors and believers occurs similarly. The church of my youth allegedly had the relics of Saint Mathias entombed within the altar. Really? But believers believe so the market thrives.
On a completely different note I made a realization today, no doubt expressed elsewhere, perhaps by many persons. It is that Oxford accomplished precisely that which he continues to be known for and doubted of, namely that he is the author. He continues to have plausible deniability and continues to have accreditation. It's mind blowing, really. It was so during his life and continues to be so.
In a way I was also booted out of the Facebook site in that I was never granted entry. It was the only reason i signed up for Facebook.
What the world needs is a book with the complete writings of Oxford. I mean everything, his letters, his early poetry, everything he transcribed that is at Hatfield, the whole works.
And of course the Shakespeare canon.
If TSM was the writer why did he hyphenate his name?
That's a good question, Moogly. Maybe TSM was
not the writer?? And maybe Oxford
was?
WAB, you're the writer, I'm the detective. I would be curious to know how much of your verse is based upon personal creation, having been physically "in the kitchen," and how much of it is based upon things you have only heard about and read about. The paltry bit of writing I have done was entirely from personal experience and observation. The last bit of writing were two intros to trail guides for a local conservancy. As someone who is constantly tramping through the wilds the only research I did was to acquaint myself with the range of plant life native to those ecosystems. All else was from my own senses having been on those trails.
Of course, were I writing a history of America's Civil War like Shelby Foote I could hardly do the same and must rely on research.
The detective in me is always about sharing information. Ramon Jimenez has written about ten eyewitnesses to Shakespeare and their silence on TSM. I'm not beating a dead horse here because I know you are a Marlowe man, but it's just a bit more evidence that the orthodoxy surrounding authorship is full of holes. The first entry is by Camden and worth the read, even if one stops there.
Ten Eyewitnesses Who Saw Nothing: Shakespeare in Stratford and London
I appreciate your post, Moogly. But remember I am strictly an amateur. Calling me a "writer" would be accurate technically but not at all true practically, since I've never earned a cent for my scribbling. A few small publications of poetry, that's all.
However, there is a broad range of discussion and argument among authors about the "write from experience" advice, or more commonly, "Write what you know" (Since that was [essentially] Hemingway's dictum)
Here is a good article featuring discussion about it, albeit it is obviously slanted away from the "write what you know" philosophy:
https://lithub.com/should-you-write-what-you-know-31-authors-weigh-in/
My fave quote from that article:
Kazuo Ishiguro: Don’t Write What You Know
“”Write about what you know” is the most stupid thing I’ve heard. It encourages people to write a dull autobiography. It’s the reverse of firing the imagination and potential of writers.”
From somewhere else, I also love this quote:
“I want to be clear about this. If you wrote from experience, you'd get maybe one book, maybe three poems. Writers write from empathy.”
- Nikki Giovanni
I especially agree with that last bit about empathy. If I were to choose what I think are my best poems, I can safely say that empathy is their impetus, and at the heart of their meaning. At the risk of vanity, I will copy three. All three have been posted in the new poetry thread or the old one in the archives.
At Wounded Knee was actually solicited by an editor in the UK for a magazine publication in 2006,
Candelabrum (again, minor):
At Wounded Knee (revised version)
Three days, and no-one comes to close my eyes.
I am as cold and quiet as a stone
on the white ground. I wait and cannot rise.
Death steals less swiftly than a bullet flies:
the ache has time to settle in the bone.
Three days, and no-one comes to close my eyes.
Snow falls and whips; the wind still rips, and cries.
Here I remain like something broken, thrown
to the white ground. I wait, and cannot rise,
nor yet lie easy, as a dead man lies,
though surely death has claimed me for his own.
Three days, and no-one comes to close my eyes.
My spirit beats its awkward wings and tries
to take the air, but, like the snow, is blown
to the white ground. I wait and cannot rise
to charge like lightning through these winter skies
with ghosts of kin who see how still I've grown
in three days. No-one comes to close my eyes.
On the white ground I wait and cannot rise.
I've never been on the frozen ground in a field near death; I am not Native American; I was not at Woulded Knee; I do not believe in an afterlife. I was able to write this poem due to one significant aspect of my personality: Empathy. When I first saw the famous photo of Chief Bigfoot lying dead in the snow, and yet looking like he was ready to fight still, so passionate was his defense of his people, I knew that a poem was in order.
My second example poem:
Helga's Tear (1 May 1945)
The children down below, quietly sleeping,
forgot the din and panic, the toil and trouble.
They had our fragile honor in their keeping.
Winter had flown, and spring came softly creeping:
so daintily, she tiptoed through the rubble.
The children down below, quietly sleeping,
deaf to the bombs and shells, and deaf to weeping,
dreamed up green meadows out of beaten stubble,
and had our fragile honor in their keeping.
Then out of Hell they counted brown sheep leaping,
and devils, black and red, crying double, double!
The children down below, quietly sleeping,
when boughs were breaking in the whirlwind's sweeping,
when all the cradles tipped in the world's wobble,
still held our fragile honor in their keeping.
While most went gently, there was one eye peeping.
Blue dazzled where a tear had begun to bubble.
O children down below, quietly sleeping,
I have your fragile honor in my keeping.
I was of course not present during this senseless massacre of children; I have no connection to the Goebbels, except that I'm half-German; I have not lost any loved one to murder; I was not there in WWII; I have no acquaintance with the Goebbels family, or with any family which has suffered the death of SIX children, all at once, at the merciless hands of their own mother, Magda Goebbels. All I have is my humanity, my empathy. I envision the elder daughter as heroic in this poem. She apparently woke up and fought her sinister mother as the latter tried to make the former bite down on a cyanide tablet (which she eventually was forced to do). Helga Goebbels is a hero.
My third example poem: the hardest poem I have ever had to write:
Lethal Injection
One pinch, and winter drifts toward your heart.
Your eyes are dazzled by the thought and keep
a point transfixed in space - cold and apart,
two fathers watch them shudder into sleep.
Now I will speak, though I cannot forgive:
lifting the iron from my tongue I swear
three syllables that are too vain to live,
that fall out stillborn, withered in mid-air.
You cannot hear me now. You lie so still
my voice returns to me, its breath turned sour.
They lift the sheet and hide your face from view.
Most will forget your name. Two never will,
who'll waken nightly in this terrible hour
joined in the ritual of remembering you.
This poem is about two fathers (Line 4) who are witnessing the execution by lethal injection of a young man. One father is the father of the person being executed; the other father is the father of the victim: ie: the person the condemned one murdered.
Mind you, there is no question of the dying man's guilt. Perhaps he confessed. And we are to assume it was unjustified and horrendous.
Nonetheless, the poem is mainly about the LOVE the father of the condemned man feels for his son. Though he will not and cannot forgive his son for the senseless, brutal crime:
Now I will speak, though I cannot forgive...
This poem came out of the thought that I had about: IF my own son committed a horrible, unforgivably brutal crime. How would I feel? How would I feel as I watched him die, wanting to comfort him but finding that completely impossible:
lifting the iron from my tongue I swear
three syllables that are too vain to live,
that fall out stillborn, withered in mid-air.
You cannot hear me now. You lie so still
my voice returns to me, its breath turned sour.
I sincerely hope y'all know what those "three syllables" are.
In case not:
BUT, Moogly, I do not miss your point, or seek to belittle it! Any author will write from experience, and any author will write what they know, what they have seen and felt; but that is only part of the journey. Imagination and empathy fill in the rest.
...
Patrick O’Brian is pertinent. - "I don’t think he ever sailed in a three-master.” -
- Ursula K. Le Guin
About O'Brian (From Wikipedia):
in 1995, venture capitalist Thomas Perkins offered O'Brian a two-week cruise aboard his then sailing yacht, a 154 ft (47 m) ketch. In an article about the experience written after O'Brian's death, Perkins commented that "... his knowledge of the practical aspects of sailing seemed, amazingly, almost nil" and "... he seemed to have no feeling for the wind and the course, and frequently I had to intervene to prevent a full standing gybe. I began to suspect that his autobiographical references to his months at sea as a youth were fanciful.
More from Le Guin:
I got whatever knowledge I have of the hearts and minds of human beings, through imagination working on observation....
That is the truth of it.
Oxfordians seem (SEEM! - I am only suggesting what I see as a common thread) to have no regard for imagination, thinking instead that writing must come from experience.