Odious and Peculiar

Philology and esoterica: scribblings, ravings and mutterings.



O&P's Current Pick:

Forging the Sampo

Odious' Links:

The Little Bookroom
The Pumpkin King
Larissa Archer
Inverted Iambs
Hitherby
Eve Tushnet
Natalie Solent
Pamela Dean
Kambodia Hotel
Pen and Paper

Charles Darwin's Beagle Diary
Deep-Sea News
NASA's Mars Website
Classics Online
Perseus Digital Library
Catholic Encyclopedia
Eurekalert!

Nine Scorpions
Siris
The Blithe Kitchen
Letter from Hardscrabble Creek
Arts & Letters Daily
Wuxiapedia
About Last Night

Peculiarities:

Photoblogging

Inspirations
Querencia
Chas Clifton's Nature Blog
Cronaca
Rock Art Photo Blog
Girl on a Whaleship
Nature Lyrics Languagehat
Jabal al-Lughat
Laputan Logic
Strange Maps
Vladimir Dinets: Polymath Russian Adventurer
Virtual Tour of Almaty, Kazakhstan
Aerial Landscape Photography
USGS Earth As Art
Panoramic Aerial Maps of the American West

References
SummitPost
The Internet Bird Collection
Bird Families of the World
Ancient Scripts
The Aberdeen Bestiary Project
The Cephalopod Page
The Ultimate Ungulate
The Red Book of the Peoples of the Russian Empire
USGS Streamflow Data

Worthy Miscellany
Finno-Ugrian Music
Boojum Expeditions
American River Touring Association

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Tuesday, September 14, 2004
 
Soon the sun itself disappears completely. But it still shines a bit on the clouds, and then colors the heavens with its rainbow play: red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet--as optics teach us. But we can't be bothered with science. For us the rainbow is the bridge of the gods; the earth is flat as a pancake, the sea without end. How the sun gets from west to east is its own affair. We just wish it good night and good morning. We don't count stamens, and we don't pull sepals apart. We think of flowers only as blue or yellow and birds according to their songs. Night climbs up from the east, and the glimmer of light in the west pushes further and further down and around to the north. The bats come out and gambol in the air, a solitary pointed-winged sandpiper streaks whiningly along the shoreline. The first star is lit, and so the hunter cocks his gun.
--Wilhelm Dinesen, "Letters from the Hunt"


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