#horace’s odes

[domusplautii]

- Horace, Odes 1.9

[brasideios]

‘… Be wise, strain the wine and cut back long hope, into a small space. Even as we speak, envious time flies past. Harvest the day and leave as little as possible for tomorrow.’

(Horace, Odes 1.11)

[dabiconcordia]

Happy the man

Happy the man, and happy he alone, he who can call today his own: he who, secure within, can say, Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today.

Be fair or foul, or rain or shine the joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine. Not Heaven itself, upon the past has power, but what has been, has been, and I have had my hour. By Horace

[Odes]

[thoodleoo]

honestly at this point i am just a weird little vending machine that you put coins in and incomprehensible statements about ancient roman literature come out

[iwanttobepersephone]

If Horace ans Cassie wasn't such an adorable ship to me she'd be a lesbian.... she would be...... Horace is the only exception to her extreme sapphic behaviors

[museofpangolins]

I've got 99 problems but scansion ain't one of them

[catilinas]

necronarratology 🤝 manuscrypt studies

[a-terrible-sound]

I don’t think enough people talk about the fact that there is literally a rock in the Underworld with Theseus’ asscheeks on it

[wellconstructedsentences]

What coast knows not our blood?

Odes by Horace

[poem-today]

A poem by Matthew Buckley Smith

Drinking Ode

for Ryan

Drink with me, old man — there’s no time And no use trying to be good. Our flesh was supple, our thoughts sublime, And now death eats us alive, and should. The gods aren’t missing any sleep Over the altar lights we burn To honor afterlives we keep Pretending we might someday earn. The king, the peasant farmer, even You and I and everyone, Can pick the suit we’d like to leave in But not the day the tailor’s done. So cowards survive the battlefield And bullies fill the lifeboats first And rich kids get their records sealed, But some verdicts can’t be reversed. Men say a river worms around The grove where dead souls speak again, But that black swamp has long since drowned Both ferryboat and ferryman. Your land, your house, your tender wife, The plum trees planted by your hand — You’ll leave them when you leave this life For a ditch beneath a cypress stand, And the man who takes your place will spill Your choicest vintage wine onto The white jacquard chaise longue you still Believe somehow belongs to you.

Matthew Buckley Smith

Listen to Matthew Buckley Smith read and discuss his poem.

More poems by Matthew Buckley Smith are available on his website.

[astrotomb]

horace mightve said to sieze the day, but he also said to be wise and strain wine, and i think more people should take up that portion of his advice.

[rachelsnotebook]

To Pyrrah

Translation

Horace, Odes 1.5

///

Who is that scrawny boy, saturated in the fragrance of roses,

that presses against you, Pyrrah, underneath that inviting grotto?

Is he the reason why your plain, golden hair is styled so elegantly?

Oh, how often will he soon cry about fickle faith and fickle gods,

your insolence like a dark, stormy sea will leave him standing there appalled;

This boy who now unsuspectingly delights in your golden hair,

who’s mind is free of doubt, and words are laced with promises to be worthy of your love.

This boy who is completely ignorant of your golden deception.

Wretched are those who don’t know about your shine.

As for me, look to the sacred wall where my wet clothes are suspended in the breeze

as an offering to the powerful god of the sea.

And my testament of a terrible storm weathered.

This piece was originally posted on October 1st, 2022 at rachelsnotebook.wixsite.com

[domusplautii]

[dabiconcordia]

“Happy the man, and happy he alone, he who can call today his own: he who, secure within, can say, Tomorrow do thy worst, for I have lived today. Be fair or foul, or rain or shine the joys I have possessed, in spite of fate, are mine. Not Heaven itself, upon the past has power, but what has been, has been, and I have had my hour.” Horace, Odes

[atlabeth]

pretty boy

pairing: spencer reid x reader

summary: spencer walks in one day with a new look. you handle it pretty well.

a/n: im in the opposite of a writing slump right now (will prob fall into a writing slump right after i say this) probably because im procrastinating on essays for school and i can only write when im meant to be doing work. but tiny little fluffy spencer one shots are very good for the soul right now. i think it's my way of healing from my hotch fic

wc: 1.8k

warning(s): one slightly sexual joke from emily. all fluff

You usually don’t get to the office this early, but you don’t exactly have a choice. The BAU’s last couple cases have all run one after another, barely leaving you any time in the office, and now you’re paying for it. 

You’ve got a mountain of paperwork to get through and not nearly enough time to do it all—if you’re lucky, you’ll be writing reports for a few days straight. If you’re not, you’ll be putting in some overtime.  

“This is the most focused I’ve ever seen you this early,” Derek comments. 

You shake your head with a sigh. “These reports are government mandated torture.” 

He chuckles, and he nods at Emily as she walks over to her desk. “Are you this busy?” 

She shakes her head. “I’ve still got a report to get through, but nothing that bad.” 

“I get it,” you say wryly. “You’re all more organized than me. Just don’t come to me asking to go out tonight—you know I can’t say no.” 

“But don’t shots taste better when you’re supposed to be doing work?” Derek asks, and you roll your eyes with a laugh. 

“Not when I’ve got this much work I’m supposed to be doing.” 

You hear the elevator ding and glance up—Spencer’s walking through and fixing his tie. You look back down at your report as you greet him. 

“Hey, Spence,” you call. “Why’re you late?” 

“I’m not late,” he says, and you can see him checking his watch out of your peripherals. “I’m two minutes and thirty-three seconds early.” 

“Really?” you muse. “I guess I’m just so used to you being here before me.” 

“You can’t judge my timeliness on yours when you’ve been here for an hour already,” Spencer says. 

You frown, tapping your pen against the paper. “How do you know?” 

“You’re settled in already. Your coat’s on your chair, your stack of unfinished files is smaller than it was last time we were in the office, your coffee isn’t steaming, and your mug has a chipped handle—when they were put away last night, that one was set in the front, so you’d have to be here early to get it.” 

“Touche,” you murmur. You’re not sure why you ever ask your team of profilers how they know something. 

“You also look like you don’t want to be here,” he comments. “That’s pretty typical of agents who have to be here before their regular hours.” 

You chuckle and tilt your head in admission. You don’t really want to be here, especially running on so few hours of sleep. 

“Why aren’t you as early as usual?” Emily asks. 

“My neighbor knocked on my door this morning to ask me for something,” Spencer says. “It threw off my whole routine. I picked the wrong tie, I couldn’t pack my bag properly, and I had to toast my bagel for two minutes instead of three and a half to make it out in time.” 

“How terrible,” Derek says with mock austerity. 

“It is terrible!” he exclaims. “It’s scientifically proven that a morning routine makes you happier, more energized, and ready to seize the day—carpe diem.” Spencer sets his bag on the floor next to his desk and looks at everyone else with a smile. “Did you know that phrase was actually coined by the Roman poet Horace in his Odes? It comes from the first book out of four in the eleventh poem—the full phrase in Latin is carpe diem, quam mini—”

“How was your bagel?” Emily asks to interrupt him, and he pauses. 

“It was good,” he says. “Could’ve been toastier.” 

You look up, a teasing remark on the edge of your tongue, but the words die in your throat when you actually see him. 

Spencer’s started combing a hand through his hair to fix it—must have been another part of his affected morning routine—his lips set in a pout as he tries to see his reflection in his dark monitor. He always looks good, even without trying, but now—

“You’re wearing glasses,” you say dumbly. 

“My contacts dried out,” he grumbles, still focused on his hair. “We got home so late last night I forgot to put them in their solution, and I had no time to fix them because my neighbor messed up my whole morning.” 

You nod, still unable to tear your eyes away from him. “Are you gonna keep wearing them?” 

“I don’t know. Contacts are better for cases because I’m not worried about them falling off or fogging up, but I usually sleep on the jet on the way back, and sleeping with contacts in isn’t good.” He smiles a bit as he fully turns to you, seemingly satisfied with his hair. “It reduces the amount of oxygen that gets to your cornea, which damages the cornea’s surface and makes it harder to regenerate new cells. Sleeping with contacts actually makes you six to eight times more likely to get an eye infection.”

You nod again, your brain still not quite working at full power. You always love listening to Spencer’s fact dumps—it gives you a lot of material to impress your non-BAU friends with on the side, and you’re eternally thankful for that—but right now, you seriously cannot focus. 

You’d never really thought about him in glasses, but that’s probably a good thing if this is how it makes you feel. 

You were valedictorian as an undergrad, and you received stellar feedback from your professors during your masters program. You’re an excellent profiler, a valued member of the BAU, and you’re a goddamn FBI agent. 

And yet you can’t find a single thought in your head because your coworker showed up to work wearing glasses. 

He’s still rambling about other common causes of eye infection and how nobody seems to take them as seriously as they should, when Derek, not even trying to hide his grin at your turmoil, speaks up.  

“Reid. Wanna cool it a bit?” 

Spencer’s eyes dart over to him for a moment before he stops. “Uh— sorry.” He frowns as he looks back at you. “Why do you ask? Do you not like them?” 

“No,” you blurt out, and you shake your head a multitude of times. “No. They look great. You look great. They’re—” You dig your nails hard into your palm as you try your hardest to smile like normal, and this time you nod. “They’re good, Spence.” 

“Thanks.” Spencer does that little smile-nod combo of his, and he pushes his glasses back into place with his thumb by the bottom of the frames. “That’s nice to know I’ve got another option.” 

You thank whatever god may be out there that Hotch and Penelope are busy in their offices and JJ is busy with some other case, because you think you would die if anyone else saw you like this. 

“Hey, Reid,” Emily says, also not doing a very good job of hiding her amusement. You hate your team sometimes. “They’re almost out of sugar in the breakroom. If you want coffee the way you like it this morning, you should probably get in there.” 

“What?” Spencer shoots up, his brows already furrowing into a frown. “That— that’s ridiculous. I can’t mess up my morning any more.” 

“You’d better get in there, then,” she remarks. 

“We’re an entire office of agents running on coffee,” Spencer complains as he starts walking. “How are we almost out of sugar?” 

“Because half of ‘em drink it black,” Derek says, and Spencer shakes his head with a sigh as he leaves. 

“That’s ridiculous.” 

You bury your head in your hands the moment he’s gone and Derek laughs. “I wish I could’ve gotten that on video.” 

“Don’t talk to me,” you groan. “It is not fair of him to walk in like that.” 

“And that is why I call him pretty boy.”

“He needs them to see,” Emily says with amusement as she leans against the side of your desk. “You just can’t control yourself.” 

“I need to transfer offices,” you say, shaking your head. “I can’t do this.” 

“You should ask him out!” Derek encourages. “He’d probably say yes.” 

“Absolutely not,” you insist. “I doubt he likes me like that. A— and even if he does, that’s the last thing either of us need right now.” 

“I don’t know,” Emily muses. “It looks like you clearly need something.” 

You let out a frustrated noise as you screw your eyes shut. “I’m doomed.” 

You hear Spencer say your name, and when you look over at him, one hand still pressed against your head, you see he’s got two cups of coffee in his hands. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah,” you say weakly. “I’m great. Why?” 

“I got you one too,” he says, holding one of the mugs out to you. “The one you have is probably cold by now, and it looks like you need an extra kick to get through all those reports.” 

“Thanks, Spence. That’s sweet.” He nods as you take the proffered mug, and you swear your cheeks are as warm as the coffee. He is really testing your strength today. 

“You— you have a lot,” he says, and you huff a dry laugh and nod. “I’m not trying to be sarcastic. I could take half of them if you want?” 

Your grip tightens on the mug and you can feel Derek’s eyes on you. “I couldn’t make you do that, Spence.” 

“You’re not!” Spencer exclaims. “I can get through mine really quickly—we worked together for almost the whole last case so I can do all of that anyways.” 

“...You’re sure it wouldn’t be an imposition?” 

“I’m sure,” he nods. “Besides, I offered. I wouldn’t if I didn’t want to.” 

And god damn him, because he nudges his glasses back into place again, pushes a strand of loose hair back into place. You’re dying over here. 

You set the mug of coffee on your desk and pick up the top half of your pile. “All yours, Spence.” 

He takes the bottom half and smiles at you, and you smile back before he walks back to his desk. You are dying over here. 

“Let me know how I can pay you back,” you say, and he shakes his head. 

“You don’t need to pay me back.” 

“Really?” 

Spencer nods. “I mean, Morgan invited us all out on the jet last night, and I don’t think I can do it alone. If you can get out of the office in time, I don’t have to. I think that's enough of a payback.” 

“Yeah,” you say. “I’ll be there.” 

He smiles again and nods, then he picks up a pen and focuses in. You turn back to your desk, your face burning. 

“What was that about him not liking you like that?” Derek says. 

“Quiet!” you whisper-yell, swatting him with the pile of files in your hand. “He might hear you!” 

“He’s not hearing anything while he’s focused on that,” he says. “That just means you can ogle him more.” 

You groan again, letting your forehead fall into your palm. “I’m pathetic.” 

“I think you’re right.” Emily chuckles as she stands up. “You are doomed.” 

[marlowe1-blog]

The Book of Job Chapter 10

You made me to break me

Now, I don't want to be too self-referential in these posts. This is the Book of Job after all and it is one of the most misunderstood books in the world literature canon, so adding my own personal anecdotes makes things feel amateurish. The college professor who always marked me down for my papers on Horace's Odes because I always included personal stuff haunts me to this day. Especially when I agree with him to a certain extent. Or more accurately I agreed with him wholeheartedly when I tried to listen to a Sarah Vowell book about the pilgrims and learned absolutely nothing about the pilgrims but learned a great deal about Sarah Vowell, way more than i ever wanted to know about Sarah Vowell.

But the line from this second part of Job's response to his friend that is now a response to G-d that goes "Does it benefit you to defraud , to despise the toil of your hands, while smiling on the counsel of the wicked?" (verse 3) that gets to me this week because I was again in the crosshairs of the Facebook AI. Apparently Facebook has fired most of its standards people (including the one friend that I had who worked at Facebook) so my week long ban stuck.

And the weeklong ban was for a meme that gets shared all over Facebook, especially on the Ides of March - the one that goes "Whoever made September, October and November the 9th, 10th and 11th month should be stabbed." Because it promotes violence. Against Julius Fucking Caesar. And again, I'd be ok with that if this was a fucking sensible rule but it's not. How do I know it's not? Because I repeatedly make complaints against Nazis, conspiracy theorists, racists and transphobes on Facebook and then get the gaslighting "this isn't against Facebook standards"

Yes, G-d is arbitrary and shitty and lets the wicked prosper and the virtuous suffer. I expect better from Facebook standards. If other media companies can cancel Andrew Taint while G-d takes his only sweet time with that tumor, you'd think that Facebook would deal with the shitbags. But yeah, Facebook was complicit in the Myanmar genocide.

So what's the rest of this chapter. It's still pretty dark but it's also one of the ultimate "fuck you G-d" chapters where Job talks about being created and risen up just so he can get smashed. And he's actually asking why G-d would make this a thing. Job knows that he's innocent (and as a reader, we know that Job is innocent. Thank you, Satan). Yet, does Job's innocence help him? No.

And then we end with another "if only I was never born" verse. I just wonder if we would hear this verse a lot more if the anti-forced birth movement was full of religious fanatics and the forced birth assholes did not selectively quote the Bible.