#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.***

[riothegreenwitch]

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

[changelingchilde9]

There have been a lot of them, but one of the less famous ones is Penelope by Dorothy Parker. 'They will call him brave' is such a brilliant line.

Alright tell me in the tags, what’s Your Poem? That poem you heard once and it has dwelt within you ever since?

[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.

[azfellandco]

Hi friend this ask is a request for you to wax lyrical about Crowley slowly dying of a poisonous dose of laudanum, because it seems That Scene is still on all our minds. <3

Godbless (they said agnostically). This is going to be a mess of a response because I have been working a lot of overtime and am pretty sleep deprived, and also because there are a lot of angles to this.

First off: you're so correct to point out that laudanum is an analgesic and not literally a poison, because I think this slots in so nicely with the pattern of stuff we see Aziraphale consume and why (food and wine, for sensual pleasure) and stuff we see Crowley consume and why (alcohol for numbing and six shots of espresso to brace himself, and now laudanum, a medical grade numbing agent, at a dosage that would have killed Elspeth had he not intervened).

To really get into this I'm going to have to talk a little about something I have a lot of approximate knowledge about: Victorian era medicine. Why I find poison sexy (maybe compelling is a better word here) is partially tied up in the Victorian era and this exact subset of knowledge, which I am going to disclaim right now as not very precise. I research stuff primarily to regurgitate it in fiction, and not for complete factual accuracy.

First off, let's take a moment to admire Crowley's prognosticative abilities once again.

Antiseptic is 25 years off, germ theory is held in disdain by the western world, but here's Anthony "that went down like a lead balloon" Crowley just trying to be helpful to this guy covered in blood.

Antiseptic was not in common medical and surgical use until the 1850s. It was pioneered by Joseph Lister, who actually worked at the University of Edinburgh, which was kind of the place to be in terms of medical breakthroughs of this time period. Before the advent of washing your hands and sterilizing surgical equipment, something like 2/3rds of surgical patients died either on the operating table or of infection afterwards. Medicine during this time period was difficult, dangerous work with a high risk of complications, and surgery was haunted by death and disease. Dr. Darymple would have administered laudanum to a patient and then strapped their limbs down and put something in their mouth so they didn't bite through their tongue before cutting into them, and even if he was a good surgeon they might have died a week later from gangrene or sepsis anyway.

It's in this world that laudanum and opium more generally got romanticized by literature and poetry. The Victorians loved opium, but the symbolism of the poppy, from which opium is derived, has been sleep and death since the classical world. My go-to example of the blending of these themes (poppies as sleep and death symbolism and this time period's interest in the classical world) is The Garden of Proserpine by Algernon Charles Swinburne, of which I will include an excerpt below:

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.

The symbolic connection between opium (and thus laudanum) and sleep and death is my strongest association with either drug. The poppies = death association is used all the time even in the modern day. See this song, Flowers, from the musical Hadestown:

Lily white and poppy red I trembled when he laid me out "You won't feel a thing," he said, "When you go down" Nothing gonna wake you up now

Poppy symbolism is doing a lot of work in this song, actually, drawing a line between virginity and death, and the flower imagery standing in for both Euridyce's sexual relationship with Hades as well as her death but I disgress.

This is my personal context for laudanum and opium. I think it's encouraged to read the sleep and death connection into both of these medicines, both by the artistic tradition that arose contemporaneously with their use and by continued references back to it in the modern day. I am thinking of the scene in Inception where the opium den they visit is full of people who go to be drugged in order to dream their lives away as just one of many other modern day examples. Opium is sleep and sleep is death.

So while the laudanum is not literally poison, I think there is cultural context in which it is possible to read it as symbolically poison, regardless of whether Crowley's not-actually-human body should be able to withstand it. I think that it is compelling to read it as such, given the above-mentioned pattern of Crowley's habits of consumption.

I've seen a lot of posts about how the next time Aziraphale and Crowley see each other after this flashback is the time Crowley asks Aziraphale to bring him holy water and Aziraphale refuses on the grounds that he won't provide Crowley with a suicide pill. While I think this says more about Aziraphale than it does about Crowley (Crowley has never struck me, by behavior or attitude, to be the kind of person who would kill themself, whereas for Aziraphale one of the worst things that could happen would be losing Crowley) there is something there, something in that tartan thermos, something in the idea that Crowley would drink his death.

There is one more angle to this, and this is going to be a bit of a reach. I once read an analysis post in another fandom about the symbolism of poison as a choice of weapon. This line will haunt me until my grave: "a man stabs, a woman poisons". Just as a sword is a phallic symbol, poison (to me) is a feminine coded way to kill another person. For more context, please read The Laboratory by Robert Browning, a poem about a woman procuring a poison to kill her husband's lover, written by another Victorian poet. Crowley dying being discorporated by self-administered poison compels me for all the reasons mentioned above but also for gender reasons. Nonbinary icon.

Crowley dying being discorporated by self-administered poison feels like it is in conversation with two events that happen chronologically later but narratively earlier: the "suicide pill" conversation and Crowley trying to wait out the apocalypse in the bar after the bookshop burned. For all intents and purposes he seems to have given up at that point and only pulls himself together because Aziraphale appears to him and proves he isn't gone gone. It makes sense as an exploration of Aziraphale's anxieties (the suicide pill convo), and the extent to which they might be justified (Crowley drinking as the world ends). It's interesting it's compelling it's symbolically rich it's consistent with characterization choices in the show.

I think realistically Crowley would keep from Aziraphale that he was in pain until he physically couldn't do so, because it would threaten the wall they've had to erect to keep each other safe to do otherwise, but in a scenario where Crowley was hurt, properly hurt, Aziraphale would find a way to excuse them because he would not stand for Crowley suffering.

Just...

The idea of Aziraphale gathering Crowley close in the dark graveyard, feeling him stumble, Crowley who is so bright and brave and beautiful reduced to clutching to Aziraphale and the pair of them trying to will him back to health the way they can choose to sober up, and failing... Crowley because by this point he's too weak, he waited too long putting up a front for Aziraphale, Aziraphale because of conflicting magic or because he's too anxious, his own personal moment of the gun shaking in Crowley's hands during the bullet catch, where he knows what he has to do but he can't do it, can't trust himself not to make it worse.

And then Crowley's body going cold, Aziraphale holding it and crying because despite knowing it's just a body and that Crowley can get another one, he failed to protect him. Crowley died for someone and Aziraphale couldn't prevent it. And the things they don't say to each other, all rushing in to fill the silence left by Crowley's stopped breath. Aziraphale whispering to him, kissing his temple, part of him wondering if he'd ever be able to do this if he wasn't already gone.

It would just be really good, okay. It would be really good.

[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.)

[mythological-art]

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.