#the garden of proserpine

[unfortunatetheorist]

Hello! Love your blog :) Hoping you can help me with a quick q. On page 269 of The Slippery Slope, Violet, Klaus and Quigley discover the VFD motto ‘the world is quiet here’ but the narrator (Lemony) describes ‘four tiny words etched over their heads’, not five. Do you think this is a mistake, or is he leaving one out (e.g: ‘the’), or is he deliberately misquoting? The motto is derived from the first line of the Algernon Charles Swinburne poem The Garden of Proserpine: ‘Here, where the world is quiet;’ — so should the real interpretation of the motto be ‘the world is quiet’? Interested to hear your thoughts, thanks!

Hi, @sianitha, thanks for the ask (my Very First Discussion)!

It's definitely an interesting question, for which there can be a few theories:

Lemony is lying, for some bizarre reason.

Lemony is referring to The Garden of Proserpine when he means the actual emblazoned motto.

Either the word 'Here' or the word 'The' got burned from the fire, and Lemony is right.

It's an unnoticed editorial mistake.

Let's see. We know none of it is burned, as Quigley read all five words out.

Lemony is lying, for some bizarre reason.

Lemony is referring to The Garden of Proserpine when he means the actual emblazoned motto.

Either the word 'Here' or the word 'The' got burned from the fire, and Lemony is right.

It's an unnoticed editorial mistake.

Lemony is known for being a bit of a liar, but I think he tells mostly half-truths - when necessary - simply because he can't trust anyone, after having gone on the lam. But in this context, it's unnecessary; he's writing these books to clear his name and the Baudelaires' names, what good would it do him to lie?

Lemony is lying, for some bizarre reason.

Lemony is referring to The Garden of Proserpine when he means the actual emblazoned motto.

Either the word 'Here' or the word 'The' got burned from the fire, and Lemony is right.

It's an unnoticed editorial mistake.

Also, as a volunteer, he'd know his poetry pretty well; well enough to distinguish it from the organisation's motto, even if it is similar.

Lemony is lying, for some bizarre reason.

Lemony is referring to The Garden of Proserpine when he means the actual emblazoned motto.

Either the word 'Here' or the word 'The' got burned from the fire, and Lemony is right.

It's an unnoticed editorial mistake.

And this makes sense when you look at other typos, such as...

...well, as far as I remember, there was one in TPP about Klaus and "her sisters", or something to that effect.

As for the interpretation of the motto, I think it means

"THE WORLD IS QUIET HERE"

i.e. Wherever there is a branch of the V.F.D., the world THERE is quiet. Elsewhere, it's noisy and uncouth.

Hope that helps,

¬ Th3r3534rch1ngr4ph, Unfortunate Theorist/Snicketologist

***EDIT: There's also a fifth option which I hadn't thought of when writing this - the motto reads "THE WORLD'S QUIET HERE". But this also doesn't follow, as Quigley read out 5 words, not 4.***

[bpdwandamaximoff]

The Garden of Proserpine

“Here, where the world is quiet;

Here, where all trouble seems

Dead winds' and spent waves' riot

In doubtful dreams of dreams;

I watch the green field growing

For reaping folk and sowing,

For harvest-time and mowing,

A sleepy world of streams.

I am tired of tears and laughter,

And men that laugh and weep;

Of what may come hereafter

For men that sow to reap:

I am weary of days and hours,

Blown buds of barren flowers,

Desires and dreams and powers

And everything but sleep.

Here life has death for neighbour,

And far from eye or ear

Wan waves and wet winds labour,

Weak ships and spirits steer;

They drive adrift, and whither

They wot not who make thither;

But no such winds blow hither,

And no such things grow here.

No growth of moor or coppice,

No heather-flower or vine,

But bloomless buds of poppies,

Green grapes of Proserpine,

Pale beds of blowing rushes

Where no leaf blooms or blushes

Save this whereout she crushes

For dead men deadly wine.

Pale, without name or number,

In fruitless fields of corn,

They bow themselves and slumber

All night till light is born;

And like a soul belated,

In hell and heaven unmated,

By cloud and mist abated

Comes out of darkness morn.

Though one were strong as seven,

He too with death shall dwell,

Nor wake with wings in heaven,

Nor weep for pains in hell;

Though one were fair as roses,

His beauty clouds and closes;

And well though love reposes,

In the end it is not well.

Pale, beyond porch and portal,

Crowned with calm leaves, she stands

Who gathers all things mortal

With cold immortal hands;

Her languid lips are sweeter

Than love's who fears to greet her

To men that mix and meet her

From many times and lands.

She waits for each and other,

She waits for all men born;

Forgets the earth her mother,

The life of fruits and corn;

And spring and seed and swallow

Take wing for her and follow

Where summer song rings hollow

And flowers are put to scorn.

There go the loves that wither,

The old loves with wearier wings;

And all dead years draw thither,

And all disastrous things;

Dead dreams of days forsaken,

Blind buds that snows have shaken,

Wild leaves that winds have taken,

Red strays of ruined springs.

We are not sure of sorrow,

And joy was never sure;

To-day will die to-morrow;

Time stoops to no man's lure;

And love, grown faint and fretful,

With lips but half regretful

Sighs, and with eyes forgetful

Weeps that no loves endure.

From too much love of living,

From hope and fear set free,

We thank with brief thanksgiving

Whatever gods may be

That no life lives for ever;

That dead men rise up never;

That even the weariest river

Winds somewhere safe to sea.

Then star nor sun shall waken,

Nor any change of light:

Nor sound of waters shaken,

Nor any sound or sight:

Nor wintry leaves nor vernal,

Nor days nor things diurnal;

Only the sleep eternal

In an eternal night.”

—Alergnon Charles Swinburne

[haveyoureadthispoem-poll]

"There go the loves that wither, / The old loves with wearier wings; / And all dead years draw thither, / And all disastrous things; / Dead dreams of days forsaken, / Blind buds that snows have shaken, / Wild leaves that winds have taken, / Red strays of ruined springs."

Read it here | Reblog for a larger sample size!

[snowrassa]

A small Persephone webweave

1. New York City Ballet Production of ‘Persephone’ with Karin von Aroldingen | 2. ‘The Garden of Proserpine’ by Algernon Charles Swinburne | 3. Lower part of a marble relief with two goddesses | 4. ‘Epic I’ Hadestown | 5. New York City Ballet Production of ‘Persephone’ with Vera Zorina

[clairyclue]

i don’t know if this fandom is even still alive but i need the tuck everlasting fandom to know next to angus’ talk with winnie about life in the boat, i wrote “garden of proserpine” when he’s talking about the flowing of water and everything without realizing the irony of that poem (which is one of my favorites)

here is the second to last stanza:

From too much love of living, 

         From hope and fear set free, 

We thank with brief thanksgiving 

         Whatever gods may be 

That no life lives for ever; 

That dead men rise up never; 

That even the weariest river 

         Winds somewhere safe to sea.

you guys get the irony right.

[nostarshere]

“Then Sun nor Star shall waken, nor any change of light. Nor sound of waters shaken, nor any sound or sight.”

Quinn wanders through the halls of the Blacksite, reciting a poem under their breath.

“Nor wintry leaves nor vernal…nor days nor things diurnal.”

They look around as the lights flicker, hopping into a locker as Froger bursts through the hallway.

“Only the sleep eternal…in an eternal night.”

They hop out of the locker as Froger leaves, rubbing at the back of their neck before continuing on to the next room.

[nerdypagan1]

I've heard this poem before, and I seem to recall it being in A Series of Unfortunate Events.

[tollingreminiscentbells]

I’m sorry if you’ve already done this, but what’s the general plot of your upcoming fics by title? I can’t wait to read them 🫶

I only have two upcoming fics actually in progress right now and I am happy to talk about them a bit!

A Momentary Radiance - RadioApple For a while I just called this the Southern Gothic. It's another canon-adjacent Alastor-meets-Lucifer-before-he-dies AU. In the wake of his mother's death and struggling in just about every way, Alastor lands on the unhinged idea of making a deal with the devil, and sells Lucifer his soul. Seven years later, the father who never acknowledged him has died, leaving behind a legitimate family that Alastor decides it's time to meet. There's a Southern Gothic trope of the malevolent stranger, who seems good but has evil intentions and brings ruin to a family, and I'm playing on that. Add in the romance between Alastor and Lucifer and we should have a good time together!

And all disastrous things - Alacest The one-shot that has possessed me and is being written right now so I can move on with my week. Human!Alastor with demon!Alastor, and a dash of the shadow. It has no plot, I explain nothing, and it's mostly sex. But the western fandom is really sleeping on Alacest and I am doing my part for the cause. You guys trust me, right? Have I ever steered you wrong before? That's what I thought.

If you're curious at all about the titles, A Momentary Radiance comes from a piece of stage direction in Tennessee Williams' The Glass Menagerie ("like a piece of translucent glass touched by light, given a momentary radiance, not actual, not lasting").

"And all disastrous things" is a fragment plucked from A.C. Swinburne's poem "The Garden of Proserpine". It fits the vibe.

I hope you enjoy the stories when they're out! <3

[lesamis]

Hello, good day to you! Ive been trying to read less common poetry and was wondering if you have some poems or poets you could reccomend that aren't the Romantics?

hi love! of course there are always poets and poems to recommend - it's good that you've already taken the precaution of excluding the romantics, because i would inevitably have thrown some shelley your way. here are some poets i've been reading lately, plus a favourite poem of each. maybe there's something in there for you! quite without meaning to, i've started this out all garden-themed and then lost the plot.

amy lowell | the garden by moonlight (amy lowell was an imagist, and the garden by moonlight encapsulates the movement so well to me, like a colour photo of late summer.)

minnie bruce pratt | the fact of the garden (i think reading this next to the above might be interesting. what else can a garden be?)

charles algernon swinburne | the garden of proserpine (swinburne might remind you of the romantics a little. he's an odd egg. works like a sleeping draught.)

hanif abdurraqib | how can black people write about flowers at a time like this (worth reading by itself so you can feel the final line break you open just a bit; worth reading with the pratt poem above as a fun comparative exercise.)

billy collins | the birds of america (no one else i've ever read quite observes the way billy collins does - he makes you want to keep an eye out, for whatever.)

anna akhmatova | lot's wife (my favourite variation on the theme, sharp and distilling and somehow gentle. very worth reading with the one below.)

elisa gonzalez | the night before i leave home (this, like lot's wife, is about looking back.)

[mythologypaintings]

Lake Avernus: Aeneas and the Cumaean Sibyl

Artist: Joseph Mallord William Turner (English, 1775–1851)

Date: 1814-1815

Medium: Oil on canvas

Collection: Yale Center for British Art, New Haven, Connecticut, United States

Description

The Cumaean Sibyl occupied a cave complex above Lake Avernus, near Naples, and was highly respected in antiquity as an oracle of Apollo. In Virgil’s Aeneid, Aeneas consults the sibyl to seek guidance on his destiny after abandoning Dido in Carthage. J. M. W. Turner shows Aeneas sacrificing to Apollo before receiving the god’s answer through the sibyl. Dissatisfied, Aeneas then asks the sibyl to let him go down to Hades to speak with his dead father. This picture was made for Sir Richard Colt Hoare, the antiquarian and amateur artist who owned the celebrated landscape garden at Stourhead in Wiltshire, which was designed to evoke the ideal Italianate landscapes that Turner emulated in this painting. Since Turner did not visit Italy until 1819, Hoare supplied Turner with his own sketches of the landscape at Cumae. Hoare intended to pair Turner’s painting with Lake Nemi with Diana and Callisto (1758) by Richard Wilson, which was already at Stourhead.

The story of Aeneas and the Sibyl is from the sixth book of Virgil's "Aeneid." The Trojan hero and his men land on the Italian coast at Cumae, near Naples, a famous shrine to the god Apollo. Knowing there is an entrance to the underworld near by, he begs the Sibyl (Apollo's priestess and prophetess) to take him to see the shade of his dead father. She tells him he must first break off a golden bough from a tree in a neighboring grove to take as an offering for the queen of the underworld, Proserpine. Then she leads him to a cave near Lake Avernus, named from the Greek for "birdless" since the vapors rising from the underworld killed any birds flying overhead, and here they make their descent. As the tale of a hero who braves the unknown, leaving Apollo's realm of light and sun to follow his destiny in the nether regions, this was the kind of classical legend that appealed most powerfully to the Romantic imagination.

[charlesandmartine]

Thursday 5th December 2024

As automobiles became more widely available, a motorist, J.M.Harkness, discovered this place in 1926 and named it Dingo Beach after the wild Australian dog that roamed the area. Clearly, hitherto, it had not existed, Burke and Wills had not been here, or Captain Cook for that matter. By 2021, according to the census, 159 people had been happy to call it home. Initially, the town was used as a resort by people from nearby Proserpine and Bowen. It certainly is an extremely fetching place; quiet, not too remote, and attracting retired folk to live here.

The properties in this remote area have no mains water. Instead, vast water tanks harvesting rainwater adorn each building, accumulating thousands of litres of usable water each, but of course, dependent upon the heavens opening during the wet. It must be a delicate balance of supply and demand. They are not pretty, and many show little attempt at disguise, but ultimately essential. I assume there is no natural bore water within reach.

Today, we set off for Airlie Beach, a major holiday location 45 minutes away. We had been there before 8 years ago, so we have memories of the town. The purpose of the visit was to book a tour of the Whitsundays, most of which depart from Airlie. Driving there, the countryside changes quite markedly from the treeclad hillsides around Dingo Beach, gradually changing to the sugar cane fields, with their little narrow gauge railways; track no wider than a fairground ride, meandering across the highway to collect the harvest, and then, with the fields turning to cultivated gardens, residential housing and finally opening out into retail parks, Bunnings Warehouse and finally Airlie Beach, with its shops, Marina's, and loads of tourists, and worse still, cruise ship shore visitors!

It was really quite a shock to find ourselves in such a busy town again, after all the tiny quiet places we visited in the past few weeks. The tourist information centre was fully occupied with travellers seeking the joys of Airlie. There was even a tour to Dingo Beach. We've just come from there, we explained. Are you cruise visitors they asked. There's a P&O cruise ship in port. Clearly, these people need attention fast because, pretty much no sooner have they arrived on a tender than they require scooping up and sending back to the ship and their feeding trough. They calmed down a bit when we told them we were around for a few days, and soon had us fixed up with a couple of trips, the first tomorrow.

Just hoping the weather improves along the lines the forecasts suggest. While we were in Airlie, we had to shelter in a hotel carpark, keeping a discreet distance from torrential rain!Returning to Dingo, we checked into the bar for a couple of schooners of Great Northern, enjoying a comfortably warm and dry evening.

Useful day. We look forward to our trip tomorrow, which is a light aircraft flight over the Great Barrier Reef from Airlie Beach Airport. We are told the views of the Reef are absolutely stunning!

ps. The frog came out of hiding, and now is enjoying a new life in the garden.

[psychi-psy]

"Even the weariest river winds somewhere safe at sea"

- The Garden of Proserpine, By Algernon Charles Swinburne

Massive memorial tattoo piece I made in honor of everyone I've ever lost in my life. This was mostly done because I needed some kind of catharsis at the time but I'm planning on getting a simplified version on my thigh one day, just trying to find the right artist since I'm pretty sure I want it to look like an oil painting 🖌

The flowers and their meanings are as follows:

Sunflowers- loyalty, adoration

Blue Chrysanthemums- the love is over

Dark Red Roses- passion

Spider Lillies- farewell, death & rebirth

Lavender- devotion, serenity, calmness

Bluebells- consistency, humility, gratitude

Blue Hydrengas- apology, regret, forgiveness

Rosemary- rememberence

[themanwithabeardbutnohair]

Poetry: The Garden of Proserpine

By Algernon Charles Swinburne

Here, where the world is quiet; Here, where all trouble seems Dead winds' and spent waves' riot In doubtful dreams of dreams; I watch the green field growing For reaping folk and sowing, For harvest-time and mowing, A sleepy world of streams.

I am tired of tears and laughter, And men that laugh and weep; Of what may come hereafter For men that sow to reap: I am weary of days and hours, Blown buds of barren flowers, Desires and dreams and powers And everything but sleep.

Here life has death for neighbour, And far from eye or ear Wan waves and wet winds labour, Weak ships and spirits steer; They drive adrift, and whither They wot not who make thither; But no such winds blow hither, And no such things grow here.

No growth of moor or coppice, No heather-flower or vine, But bloomless buds of poppies, Green grapes of Proserpine, Pale beds of blowing rushes Where no leaf blooms or blushes Save this whereout she crushes For dead men deadly wine.

Pale, without name or number, In fruitless fields of corn, They bow themselves and slumber All night till light is born; And like a soul belated, In hell and heaven unmated, By cloud and mist abated Comes out of darkness morn.

Though one were strong as seven, He too with death shall dwell, Nor wake with wings in heaven, Nor weep for pains in hell; Though one were fair as roses, His beauty clouds and closes; And well though love reposes, In the end it is not well.

Pale, beyond porch and portal, Crowned with calm leaves, she stands Who gathers all things mortal With cold immortal hands; Her languid lips are sweeter Than love's who fears to greet her To men that mix and meet her From many times and lands.

She waits for each and other, She waits for all men born; Forgets the earth her mother, The life of fruits and corn; And spring and seed and swallow Take wing for her and follow Where summer song rings hollow And flowers are put to scorn.

There go the loves that wither, The old loves with wearier wings; And all dead years draw thither, And all disastrous things; Dead dreams of days forsaken, Blind buds that snows have shaken, Wild leaves that winds have taken, Red strays of ruined springs.

We are not sure of sorrow, And joy was never sure; To-day will die to-morrow; Time stoops to no man's lure; And love, grown faint and fretful, With lips but half regretful Sighs, and with eyes forgetful Weeps that no loves endure.

From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free, We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may be That no life lives for ever; That dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea.

Then star nor sun shall waken, Nor any change of light: Nor sound of waters shaken, Nor any sound or sight: Nor wintry leaves nor vernal, Nor days nor things diurnal; Only the sleep eternal In an eternal night.

[recapitulation]

every time i reread the garden of proserpine its like holy fuck this is even better than i remember it being. every time

[elipheleh]

Statues

Continuing my series of learning about things referenced in the book, I'm looking at things referenced in Alex & Henry's visit to the V&A Museum. These are all tagged #a series of learning about things that are referenced in the book, if you want to block the tag.

The main post for the V&A visit is here. This post is an image-heavy one, so i'll put a read more below the quote. Please note that some of the statues shown are nude.

-----

There’s a life-size sculpture of Zephyr, the Greek god of the west wind brought to life by Francavilla, a crown on his head and one foot on a cloud. Narcissus on his knees, mesmerized by his own reflection in the pool, […] carved by Cioli […] Pluto stealing Proserpina away to the underworld, and Jason with his golden fleece. They wind up back at the first statue, Samson Slaying a Philistine, the one that knocked the wind out of Alex when they walked in. He’s never seen anything like it—the smooth muscles, the indentations of flesh, the breathing, bleeding life of it, all carved by Giambologna out of marble. If he could touch it, he swears the skin would be warm. -Chapter 10, Red White & Royal Blue

Zephyr

This statue was commissioned from sculptor Giambologna in 1574. One of thirteen destined for the garden at the Villa Bracci near Florence, Italy, they were brought to the UK in 1750, and rediscovered in the grounds of Kew Garden in 1852. The statue depicts Zephyr standing with his left leg slightly bent, his foot on a cloud, and he is wearing a crown. There is the upturned face of a cherub by his feet, whose cheeks are blown out and the wind becomes a billowing cloth, held by Zephyr. Zephyr is a character from Greek myths, known as the west wind of the springtime.

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Narcissus

This statue is thought to have been restored by Valerio Cioli around 1560, but originally dates back to Roman times. Originally identified as a lost Michelangelo statue of Cupid, it was later discovered this wasn't accurate. The statue depicts Narcissus as a youth returning from a hunt, and is thought that it may have been the centrepiece for a fountain. The myth of Narcissus holds that he saw his reflection in a pool of water and was mesmerised by his own beauty, and he dies unable to ever look away from himself.

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Pluto & Proserpine

This piece, a relief, shows four figures, some partially covered and others almost nude. The figures are three females and one male, who is representing Pluto. There is a smaller figure near the top, half contained within the background, depicting Cupid. A relief tends to be a sculpture which is attached in some form to its background. In this instance you can see that three of the figures are somewhat attached or within the back piece of the plaster. The relief was created in 1849, by British artist Edward James Physick.

In classical mythology, Proserpine (sometimes Proserpina) was the daughter of the goddess of agriculture, Ceres. Pluto, the god of the underworld, falls in love with Proserpine while she was collecting flowers with her companions and carries her to the underworld to make her his wife.

-----

Jason

This statue is thought to have been carved in the second half of the 1500s, but the sculptor is unknown. Art historians have various different ideas of who the artist might be. It depicts Jason, nude and holding the shaft of a spear in his right hand and the golden fleece in his left. Some of the sculpture is definitely not original, parts such as the front of the nose, two locks of hair over the forehead, and the penis all date to the 19th century. It is possible that the sculpture originated from the gardens of the Palazzo Strozzi, Florence, but can't be confirmed if it was there in the 16th century. However, that is where the statue was obtained from.

Jason is a well known Greek hero, who was first written about in the 200s BC by Apollonius of Rhodes, an Alexandrian poet. In the story, Jason leads the Argonauts to capture the Golden Fleece from the King of Colchis, where the King's daughter fell in love with Jason. She helped him to win the fleece with her magic skills, and both fled back to Greece to avoid the wrath of her father.

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Samson

Samson was one of the last leaders who 'judged' Israel before the monarchy was established. Biblical accounts depict him as a Nazirite who had immense strength due to his long hair - if it were to be cut, he would lose his strength. This statue is based on Judges 15, where he 'strikes down a thousand men' with the jawbone of a donkey and becomes a leader of Israel.

This statue, sculpted by Giambologna in the early 1560s, and is one of very few to leave Italy. Inspired by an earlier unfinished project by Michelangelo, the work shows Samson posed diagonally with a Philistine crouching between his legs. The Philistine is holding a stone in his right hand, and Samson's left thigh in his left. Samson has his head pulled back and has his hand raised to strike the Philistine.

Art historians note that this is a good example of Giambologna's work with multiple viewpoints - rather than other statues in this post which are intended for you to view it from one angle, this one allows you to view it from different angles and see different features of his work.

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Sources: V&A - Zephyr Web Gallery of Art - Zephyr V&A - Narcissus V&A - Pluto & Proserpine V&A - Jason V&A - Samson Slaying a Philistine Bible - Judges 15