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By Elizabeth Spires | August 16, 1998
In heaven it is always autumn. The leaves are always nearto falling there but never fall, and pairs of souls out walkingL heaven's paths no longer feel the weight of years upon them.Safe in heaven's calm, they take each other's arm,the light shining through them, all joy and terror gone.But we are far from heaven here, in a garden ragged and unkeptas Eden would be with the walls knocked down, the paths litteredwith the unswept leaves of many years, bright keepsakesL for children of the Fall.
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By John E. McIntyre and The Baltimore Sun | September 1, 2014
Each week The Sun's John McIntyre presents a relatively obscure but evocative word with which you may not be familiar, another brick to add to the wall of your vocabulary. This week's word:  SUBLUNARY Unless you're reading sixteen- and seventeenth-century literature, you're not likely to find sublunary  cropping up often, more's the pity. (More's the pity, too, that you're not reading more sixteenth- and seventeenth-century literature.)  The word mean existing beneath the moon (from the Latin sub , "under," luna , "moon")
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By James M. Coram | April 3, 1991
Despite what metaphysical poet John Donne tells us, most people do not live their lives feeling diminished by the deaths of strangers.For the unaware, the world continues without end -- just as it did last week when a young Columbia Association employee drowned in Lake Elkhorn.The day started beautifully. Rain had been forecast, but the dawncame warm and clear.The only sign of the approaching front was awest wind whipping across the lake.That wind capsized the canoe that 21-year-old Michael Hubbard and his 23-year-old co-worker had found irresistible at about 9 o'clock that morning.
ENTERTAINMENT
By Clarinda Harriss and Clarinda Harriss,Special to the Sun | April 17, 2005
The first line that Sir Patrick red, a loud lauch lauched he; The next line that Sir Patrick red, the teir blinded his ee. "The Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence," Anonymous The old ballad-makers knew it, those nameless singers who time-machined the 14th century to us via Appalachia: Laughter and tears are twins. Shakespeare knew it: Here's Mercutio, from Act III of Romeo and Juliet, on the subject of the sword wound from which he's dying: "...'tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church-door; but 'tis enough, 'twill serve: ask for me to-morrow, and you shall find me a grave man."
NEWS
By Jacques Kelly and Jacques Kelly,SUN STAFF | March 31, 2000
William Randolph Mueller, Humanities Institute founder and former chairman of Goucher College's English department, died Wednesday of a stroke at Roland Park Place. He was 83. In 1972, after a lengthy stint teaching English literature to college undergraduates, he struck out on his own and founded the Humanities Institute, a continuing-education program initially tailored to women who had finished raising their families. His eight-week courses flourished for 15 years here and are offered as literary seminars in England, Scotland and Ireland.
NEWS
By John E. McIntyre and The Baltimore Sun | September 1, 2014
Each week The Sun's John McIntyre presents a relatively obscure but evocative word with which you may not be familiar, another brick to add to the wall of your vocabulary. This week's word:  SUBLUNARY Unless you're reading sixteen- and seventeenth-century literature, you're not likely to find sublunary  cropping up often, more's the pity. (More's the pity, too, that you're not reading more sixteenth- and seventeenth-century literature.)  The word mean existing beneath the moon (from the Latin sub , "under," luna , "moon")
ENTERTAINMENT
By Clarinda Harriss and Clarinda Harriss,Special to the Sun | April 17, 2005
The first line that Sir Patrick red, a loud lauch lauched he; The next line that Sir Patrick red, the teir blinded his ee. "The Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence," Anonymous The old ballad-makers knew it, those nameless singers who time-machined the 14th century to us via Appalachia: Laughter and tears are twins. Shakespeare knew it: Here's Mercutio, from Act III of Romeo and Juliet, on the subject of the sword wound from which he's dying: "...'tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church-door; but 'tis enough, 'twill serve: ask for me to-morrow, and you shall find me a grave man."
FEATURES
By J. Wynn Rousuck and J. Wynn Rousuck,SUN THEATER CRITIC | May 15, 2003
There's a scene in Margaret Edson's 1999 Pulitzer Prize-winning play Wit in which a professor vehemently defends the use of a modest comma over a "hysterical" semicolon in the last line of the John Donne sonnet beginning, "Death be not proud." When punctuated properly, "Nothing but a breath - a comma - separates life from life everlasting," she explains. This may sound like nitpicking, but that comma, that breath, is the brief space in which Wit takes place. The play is an account of the valiant but futile battle waged by Vivian Bearing, a world-class John Donne scholar, against stage four metastatic ovarian cancer; there is no stage five, as she matter-of-factly informs us. Dedicated to literary research, Vivian now becomes equally dedicated to being a medical guinea pig. But as she discovers, studying and being studied are very different pursuits.
NEWS
By R. Thomas Berner | December 18, 2002
No man is an island, entire of itself; Every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main - John Donne (1624) AUSTRALIA MAY FIND itself isolated from the rest of the world if a Melbourne businessman unhappy with Barron's, a U.S. financial publication, wins his defamation case against the weekly Dow Jones newspaper in an Australian court. The offending publication was a story downloaded from the Dow Jones Web site in New Jersey. So why would someone sue in Australia instead of the United States?
ENTERTAINMENT
By J. Wynn Rousuck | March 23, 2000
This is the last weekend to catch one of the high points of the theatrical season -- Margaret Edson's moving 1999 Pulitzer Prize-winning play, "Wit," at Washington's Kennedy Center. Edson, a Washington native, is a kindergarten teacher, and her play is also about a teacher, but of a different stripe. Vivian Bearing, the protagonist in "Wit," is a college professor with an international reputation for her studies of John Donne. She's the type of scholar who revels in the intellectual intricacies of her subject without grasping its emotional content.
FEATURES
By J. Wynn Rousuck and J. Wynn Rousuck,SUN THEATER CRITIC | May 15, 2003
There's a scene in Margaret Edson's 1999 Pulitzer Prize-winning play Wit in which a professor vehemently defends the use of a modest comma over a "hysterical" semicolon in the last line of the John Donne sonnet beginning, "Death be not proud." When punctuated properly, "Nothing but a breath - a comma - separates life from life everlasting," she explains. This may sound like nitpicking, but that comma, that breath, is the brief space in which Wit takes place. The play is an account of the valiant but futile battle waged by Vivian Bearing, a world-class John Donne scholar, against stage four metastatic ovarian cancer; there is no stage five, as she matter-of-factly informs us. Dedicated to literary research, Vivian now becomes equally dedicated to being a medical guinea pig. But as she discovers, studying and being studied are very different pursuits.
NEWS
By R. Thomas Berner | December 18, 2002
No man is an island, entire of itself; Every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main - John Donne (1624) AUSTRALIA MAY FIND itself isolated from the rest of the world if a Melbourne businessman unhappy with Barron's, a U.S. financial publication, wins his defamation case against the weekly Dow Jones newspaper in an Australian court. The offending publication was a story downloaded from the Dow Jones Web site in New Jersey. So why would someone sue in Australia instead of the United States?
NEWS
By Jacques Kelly and Jacques Kelly,SUN STAFF | March 31, 2000
William Randolph Mueller, Humanities Institute founder and former chairman of Goucher College's English department, died Wednesday of a stroke at Roland Park Place. He was 83. In 1972, after a lengthy stint teaching English literature to college undergraduates, he struck out on his own and founded the Humanities Institute, a continuing-education program initially tailored to women who had finished raising their families. His eight-week courses flourished for 15 years here and are offered as literary seminars in England, Scotland and Ireland.
FEATURES
By Elizabeth Spires | August 16, 1998
In heaven it is always autumn. The leaves are always nearto falling there but never fall, and pairs of souls out walkingL heaven's paths no longer feel the weight of years upon them.Safe in heaven's calm, they take each other's arm,the light shining through them, all joy and terror gone.But we are far from heaven here, in a garden ragged and unkeptas Eden would be with the walls knocked down, the paths litteredwith the unswept leaves of many years, bright keepsakesL for children of the Fall.
NEWS
By James M. Coram | April 3, 1991
Despite what metaphysical poet John Donne tells us, most people do not live their lives feeling diminished by the deaths of strangers.For the unaware, the world continues without end -- just as it did last week when a young Columbia Association employee drowned in Lake Elkhorn.The day started beautifully. Rain had been forecast, but the dawncame warm and clear.The only sign of the approaching front was awest wind whipping across the lake.That wind capsized the canoe that 21-year-old Michael Hubbard and his 23-year-old co-worker had found irresistible at about 9 o'clock that morning.
NEWS
October 21, 2004
On October 19, 2004, GEORGE SHILLOW WEIGEL; beloved husband of Betsy Schmitz Weigel; devoted father of George S. Weigel, Jr., Dr. John H. Weigel and the late Anne M. Weigel; dear father-in-law of Joan B. Weigel and Linda B. Weigel; loving grandfather of Gwyneth Susil, David C. Weigel, Monica R. Weigel, Gregory J. Weigel, Alison C. Weigel and Stephen P. Weigel; dear brother of the late Frank X. and John Donne Weigel. Friends may call at the family owned Mitchell-Wiedefeld Funeral Home, Inc., 6500 York Road, (at Overbrook)
NEWS
January 29, 1996
Joseph Brodsky, 55, a Russian exile and Nobel Prize-winning poet who became poet laureate of the United States, died of a heart attack in his sleep yesterday at his Brooklyn, N.Y., home."
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