September 16th, 2008

A Birthday

Sailing To Byzantium


That is no country for old men.  The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
--Those dying generations--at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unageing intellect.
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A Birthday

nobody notices the normal. . .

Did I mention this while talking about reading primary source?  No I did not.  I ought to amend that. . . .

One common error in reading primary sources is that people don't report what's normal in their lives.  If someone writes a letter saying, "I was up at six this morning." and you want to know what time she normally got up -- this is evidence that it wasn't six.  At least, normally.

Unless for some reason she was being unusually scrupulous about reporting her days.  Ah, the delights of reading between the lines.

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