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1:But what kind of race is it, when the racers never let go of each other's hands, and the winner pulls the loser laughing over the finish line? ~ Orson Scott Card,

2:You've the beat of a dancer to a measure or harmonious rush of a porpoise at the prow where the racers all win easily— like centaurs' legs in tune, as when kettledrums compete; nose rigid and suede nostrils spread, a light left hand on the rein, till well—this is a rhapsody. ~ Marianne Moore,

3:Part I: Visions In The Smoke Rest, and be thankful ! On the verge Of the tall cliff rugged and grey, But whose granite base the breakers surge, And shiver their frothy spray, Outstretched, I gaze on the eddying wreath That gathers and flits away, With the surf beneath, and between my teeth The stem of the 'ancient clay'. With the anodyne cloud on my listless eyes, With its spell on my dreamy brain, As I watch the circling vapours rise From the brown bowl up to the sullen skies. My vision becomes more plain, Till a dim kaleidoscope succeeds Through the smoke-rack drifting and veering, Like ghostly riders on phantom steeds To a shadowy goal careering. In their own generation the wise may sneer, They hold our sports in derision ; Perchance to sophist, or sage, or seer, Were allotted a graver vision. Yet if man, of all the Creator plann'd, His noblest work is reckoned, Of the works of His hand, by sea or by land, The horse may at least rank second. Did they quail, those steeds of the squadrons light, Did they flinch from the battle's roar, When they burst on the guns of the Muscovite, By the echoing Black Sea shore ? On ! on ! to the cannon's mouth they stride, With never a swerve nor a shy, Oh ! the minutes of yonder maddening ride, Long years of pleasure outvie ! No slave, but a comrade staunch, in this, Is the horse, for he takes his share, 207 Not in peril alone, but in feverish bliss, And in longing to do and dare. Where bullets whistle, and round shot whiz, Hoofs trample, and blades flash bare, God send me an ending as fair as his Who died in his stirrups there ! The wind has slumbered throughout the day, Now a fitful gust springs over the bay, My wandering thoughts no longer stray, I'll fix my overcoat buttons ; Secure my old hat as best I may (And a shocking bad one it is, by the way), Blow a denser cloud from my stunted clay, And then, friend Bell, as the Frenchmen say, We'll 'go back again to our muttons'. There's a lull in the tumult on yonder hill, And the clamour has grown less loud, Though the Babel of tongues is never still, With the presence of such a crowd. The bell has rung. With their riders up At the starting post they muster, The racers stripp'd for the 'Melbourne Cup', All gloss and polish and lustre ; And the course is seen, with its emerald sheen, By the bright spring-tide renew'd, Like a ribbon of green, stretched out between The ranks of the multitude. The flag is lowered. 'They're off !' 'They come !' The squadron is sweeping on ; A sway in the crowd—a murmuring hum ! 'They're here !' 'They're past !' 'They're gone !' They came with the rush of the southern surf, On the bar of the storm-girt bay ; And like muffled drums on the sounding turf Their hoof-strokes echo away. The rose and black draws clear of the ruck, And the murmur swells to a roar, As the brave old colours that never were struck, 208 Are seen with the lead once more. Though the feathery ferns and grasses wave O'er the sod where Lantern sleeps, Though the turf is green on Fisherman's grave, The stable its prestige keeps. Six lengths in front she scours along, She's bringing the field to trouble ; She's tailing them off, she's running strong, She shakes her head and pulls double. Now Minstrel falters and Exile flags, The Barb finds the pace too hot, And Toryboy loiters, and Playboy lags, And the bolt of Ben Bolt is shot. That she never may be caught this day, Is the worst that the public wish her. She won't be caught ; she comes right away ; Hurrah for Seagull and Fisher ; See, Strop falls back, though his reins are slack, Sultana begins to tire, And the top-weight tells on the Sydney crack, And the pace on 'the Gippsland flyer'. The rowels, as round the turn they sweep, Just graze Tim Whiffler's flanks ; Like the hunted deer that flies through the sheep, He strides through the beaten ranks. Daughter of Omen, prove your birth, The colt will take lots of choking ; The hot breath steams at your saddle girth, From his scarlet nostril smoking. The shouts of the Ring for a space subside, And slackens the bookmaker's roar ; Now, Davis, rally ; now, Carter, ride, As man never rode before. When Sparrowhawk's backers cease to cheer, When Yattendon's friends are dumb, When hushed is the clamour for Volunteer— Alone in the race they come ! 209 They're neck and neck ; they're head and head ; They're stroke for stroke in the running ; The whalebone whistles, the steel is red, No shirking as yet nor shunning. One effort, Seagull, the blood you boast Should struggle when nerves are strained ;— With a rush on the post, by a neck at the most, The verdict for Tim is gained. Tim Whiffler wins. Is blood alone The sine qua non for a flyer ? The breed of his dam is a myth unknown, And we've doubts respecting his sire. Yet few (if any) those proud names are, On the pages of peerage or stud, In whose 'scutcheon lurks no sinister bar, No taint of the base black blood. Aye, Shorthouse, laugh—laugh loud and long, For pedigree you're a sticker ; You may be right, I may be wrong, Wiseacres both ! Let's liquor. Our common descent we may each recall To a lady of old caught tripping, The fair one in fig leaves, who d——d us all For a bite at a golden pippin. When first on this rocky ledge I lay, There was scarce a ripple in yonder bay, The air was serenely still ; Each column that sailed from my swarthy clay Hung loitering long ere it passed away, Though the skies wore a tinge of leaden grey, And the atmosphere was chill. But the red sun sank to his evening shroud, Where the western billows are roll'd Behind a curtain of sable cloud, With a fringe of scarlet and gold ; There's a misty glare in the yellow moon, And the drift is scudding fast, There'll be storm, and rattle, and tempest soon, When the heavens are overcast. 210 The neutral tint of the sullen sea Is fleck'd with the snowy foam, And the distant gale sighs drearilie, As the wanderer sighs for his home. The white sea-horses toss their manes On the bar of the southern reef, And the breakers moan, and—by Jove, it rains (I thought I should come to grief) ; Though it can't well damage my shabby hat, Though my coat looks best when it's damp ; Since the shaking I got (no matter where at), I've a mortal dread of the cramp. My matches are wet, my pipe's put out, And the wind blows colder and stronger ; I'll be stiff, and sore, and sorry, no doubt, If I lie here any longer. ~ Adam Lindsay Gordon,

4:I. The morn when first it thunders in March, The eel in the pond gives a leap, they say: As I leaned and looked over the aloed arch Of the villa-gate this warm March day, No flash snapped, no dumb thunder rolled In the valley beneath where, white and wide And washed by the morning water-gold, Florence lay out on the mountain-side. II. River and bridge and street and square Lay mine, as much at my beck and call, Through the live translucent bath of air, As the sights in a magic crystal ball. And of all I saw and of all I praised, The most to praise and the best to see Was the startling bell-tower Giotto raised: But why did it more than startle me? III. Giotto, how, with that soul of yours, Could you play me false who loved you so? Some slights if a certain heart endures Yet it feels, I would have your fellows know! I' faith, I perceive not why I should care To break a silence that suits them best, But the thing grows somewhat hard to bear When I find a Giotto join the rest. IV. On the arch where olives overhead Print the blue sky with twig and leaf, (That sharp-curled leaf which they never shed) 'Twixt the aloes, I used to lean in chief, And mark through the winter afternoons, By a gift God grants me now and then, In the mild decline of those suns like moons, Who walked in Florence, besides her men. V. They might chirp and chaffer, come and go For pleasure or profit, her men alive- My business was hardly with them, I trow, But with empty cells of the human hive; -With the chapter-room, the cloister-porch, The church's apsis, aisle or nave, Its crypt, one fingers along with a torch, Its face set full for the sun to shave. VI. Wherever a fresco peels and drops, Wherever an outline weakens and wanes Till the latest life in the painting stops, Stands One whom each fainter pulse-tick pains: One, wishful each scrap should clutch the brick, Each tinge not wholly escape the plaster, -A lion who dies of an ****'s kick, The wronged great soul of an ancient Master. VII. For oh, this world and the wrong it does They are safe in heaven with their backs to it, The Michaels and Rafaels, you hum and buzz Round the works of, you of the little wit! Do their eyes contract to the earth's old scope, Now that they see God face to face, And have all attained to be poets, I hope? 'Tis their holiday now, in any case. VIII. Much they reck of your praise and you! But the wronged great souls-can they be quit Of a world where their work is all to do, Where you style them, you of the little wit, Old Master This and Early the Other, Not dreaming that Old and New are fellows: A younger succeeds to an elder brother, Da Vincis derive in good time from Dellos. IX. And here where your praise might yield returns, And a handsome word or two give help, Here, after your kind, the mastiff girns And the puppy pack of poodles yelp. What, not a word for Stefano there, Of brow once prominent and starry, Called Nature's Ape and the world's despair For his peerless painting? (See Vasari.) X. There stands the Master. Study, my friends, What a man's work comes to! So he plans it, Performs it, perfects it, makes amends For the toiling and moiling, and then, sic transit! Happier the thrifty blind-folk labour, With upturned eye while the hand is busy, Not sidling a glance at the coin of their neighbour! 'Tis looking downward that makes one dizzy. XI. ``If you knew their work you would deal your dole.'' May I take upon me to instruct you? When Greek Art ran and reached the goal, Thus much had the world to boast in fructu- The Truth of Man, as by God first spoken, Which the actual generations garble, Was re-uttered, and Soul (which Limbs betoken) And Limbs (Soul informs) made new in marble. XII. So, you saw yourself as you wished you were, As you might have been, as you cannot be; Earth here, rebuked by Olympus there: And grew content in your poor degree With your little power, by those statues' godhead, And your little scope, by their eyes' full sway, And your little grace, by their grace embodied, And your little date, by their forms that stay. XIII. You would fain be kinglier, say, than I am? Even so, you will not sit like Theseus. You would prove a model? The Son of Priam Has yet the advantage in arms' and knees' use. You're wroth-can you slay your snake like Apollo? You're grieved-still Niobe's the grander! You live-there's the Racers' frieze to follow: You die-there's the dying Alexander. XIV. So, testing your weakness by their strength, Your meagre charms by their rounded beauty, Measured by Art in your breadth and length, You learned-to submit is a mortal's duty. -When I say ``you'' 'tis the common soul, The collective, I mean: the race of Man That receives life in parts to live in a whole, And grow here according to God's clear plan. XV. Growth came when, looking your last on them all, You turned your eyes inwardly one fine day And cried with a start-What if we so small Be greater and grander the while than they? Are they perfect of lineament, perfect of stature? In both, of such lower types are we Precisely because of our wider nature; For time, theirs-ours, for eternity. XVI. To-day's brief passion limits their range; It seethes with the morrow for us and more. They are perfect-how else? they shall never change: We are faulty-why not? we have time in store. The Artificer's hand is not arrested With us; we are rough-hewn, nowise polished: They stand for our copy, and, once invested With all they can teach, we shall see them abolished. XVII. 'Tis a life-long toil till our lump be leaven- The better! What's come to perfection perishes. Things learned on earth, we shall practise in heaven: Works done least rapidly, Art most cherishes. Thyself shalt afford the example, Giotto! Thy one work, not to decrease or diminish, Done at a stroke, was just (was it not?) ``O!'' Thy great Campanile is still to finish. XVIII. Is it true that we are now, and shall be hereafter, But what and where depend on life's minute? Hails heavenly cheer or infernal laughter Our first step out of the gulf or in it? Shall Man, such step within his endeavour, Man's face, have no more play and action Than joy which is crystallized for ever, Or grief, an eternal petrifaction? XIX. On which I conclude, that the early painters, To cries of ``Greek Art and what more wish you?''- Replied, ``To become now self-acquainters, ``And paint man man, whatever the issue! ``Make new hopes shine through the flesh they fray, ``New fears aggrandize the rags and tatters: ``To bring the invisible full into play! ``Let the visible go to the dogs-what matters?'' XX. Give these, I exhort you, their guerdon and glory For daring so much, before they well did it. The first of the new, in our race's story, Beats the last of the old; 'tis no idle quiddit. The worthies began a revolution, Which if on earth you intend to acknowledge, Why, honour them now! (ends my allocution) Nor confer your degree when the folk leave college. XXI. There's a fancy some lean to and others hate- That, when this life is ended, begins New work for the soul in another state, Where it strives and gets weary, loses and wins: Where the strong and the weak, this world's congeries, Repeat in large what they practised in small, Through life after life in unlimited series; Only the scale's to be changed, that's all. XXII. Yet I hardly know. When a soul has seen By the means of Evil that Good is best, And, through earth and its noise, what is heaven's serene,- When our faith in the same has stood the test- Why, the child grown man, you burn the rod, The uses of labour are surely done; There remaineth a rest for the people of God: And I have had troubles enough, for one. XXIII. But at any rate I have loved the season Of Art's spring-birth so dim and dewy; My sculptor is Nicolo the Pisan, My painter-who but Cimabue? Nor ever was man of them all indeed, From these to Ghiberti and Ghirlandaio, Could say that he missed my critic-meed. So, now to my special grievance-heigh ho! XXIV. Their ghosts still stand, as I said before, Watching each fresco flaked and rasped, Blocked up, knocked out, or whitewashed o'er: -No getting again what the church has grasped! The works on the wall must take their chance; ``Works never conceded to England's thick clime!'' (I hope they prefer their inheritance Of a bucketful of Italian quick-lime.) XXV. When they go at length, with such a shaking Of heads o'er the old delusion, sadly Each master his way through the black streets taking, Where many a lost work breathes though badly- Why don't they bethink them of who has merited? Why not reveal, while their pictures dree Such doom, how a captive might be out-ferreted? Why is it they never remember me? XXVI. Not that I expect the great Bigordi, Nor Sandro to hear me, chivalric, bellicose; Nor the wronged Lippino; and not a word I Say of a scrap of Fr Angelico's: But are you too fine, Taddeo Gaddi, To grant me a taste of your intonaco, Some Jerome that seeks the heaven with a sad eye? Not a churlish saint, Lorenzo Monaco? XXVII. Could not the ghost with the close red cap, My Pollajolo, the twice a craftsman, Save me a sample, give me the hap Of a muscular Christ that shows the draughtsman? No Virgin by him the somewhat petty, Of finical touch and tempera crumbly- Could not Alesso Baldovinetti Contribute so much, I ask him humbly? XXVIII. Margheritone of Arezzo, With the grave-clothes garb and swaddling barret (Why purse up mouth and beak in a pet so, You bald old saturnine poll-clawed parrot?) Not a poor glimmering Crucifixion, Where in the foreground kneels the donor? If such remain, as is my conviction, The hoarding it does you but little honour. XXIX. They pass; for them the panels may thrill, The tempera grow alive and tinglish; Their pictures are left to the mercies still Of dealers and stealers, Jews and the English, Who, seeing mere money's worth in their prize, Will sell it to somebody calm as Zeno At naked High Art, and in ecstasies Before some clay-cold vile Carlino! XXX. No matter for these! But Giotto, you, Have you allowed, as the town-tongues babble it,- Oh, never! it shall not be counted true- That a certain precious little tablet Which Buonarroti eyed like a lover,- Was buried so long in oblivion's womb And, left for another than I to discover, Turns up at last! and to whom?-to whom? XXXI. I, that have haunted the dim San Spirito, (Or was it rather the Ognissanti?) Patient on altar-step planting a weary toe! Nay, I shall have it yet! Detur amanti! My Koh-i-noor-or (if that's a platitude) Jewel of Giamschid, the Persian Sofi's eye So, in anticipative gratitude, What if I take up my hope and prophesy? XXXII. When the hour grows ripe, and a certain dotard Is pitched, no parcel that needs invoicing, To the worse side of the Mont Saint Gothard, We shall begin by way of rejoicing; None of that shooting the sky (blank cartridge), Nor a civic guard, all plumes and lacquer, Hunting Radetzky's soul like a partridge Over Morello with squib and cracker. XXXIII. This time we'll shoot better game and bag 'em hot- No mere display at the stone of Dante, But a kind of sober Witanagemot (Ex: ``Casa Guidi,'' quod videas ante) Shall ponder, once Freedom restored to Florence, How Art may return that departed with her. Go, hated house, go each trace of the Loraine's, And bring us the days of Orgagna hither! XXXIV. How we shall prologize, how we shall perorate, Utter fit things upon art and history, Feel truth at blood-heat and falsehood at zero rate, Make of the want of the age no mystery; Contrast the fructuous and sterile eras, Show-monarchy ever its uncouth cub licks Out of the bear's shape into Chimra's, While Pure Art's birth is still the republic's. XXXV. Then one shall propose in a speech (curt Tuscan, Expurgate and sober, with scarcely an ``issimo,'') To end now our half-told tale of Cambuscan, And turn the bell-tower's alt to altissimo: And fine as the beak of a young beccaccia The Campanile, the Duomo's fit ally, Shall soar up in gold full fifty braccia, Completing Florence, as Florence Italy. XXXVI. Shall I be alive that morning the scaffold Is broken away, and the long-pent fire, Like the golden hope of the world, unbaffled Springs from its sleep, and up goes the spire While ``God and the People'' plain for its motto, Thence the new tricolour flaps at the sky? At least to foresee that glory of Giotto And Florence together, the first am I! A sculptor, died 1278. Died 1455. Designed the bronze gates of the Baptistry at Florence. A painter, died 1498. The son of Fr Lippo Lippi. Wronged, because some of his pictures have been attributed to others. Died 1366. One of Giotto's pupils and assistants. Rough cast. Painter, sculptor, and goldsmith. Distemper-mixture of water and egg yolk. Sculptor and architect, died 1313- All Saints. A Florentine painter, died 1576. Tartar king. A woodcock ~ Robert Browning, Old Pictures In Florence ,

   1 Poetry
   1 Islam

1.100 - The Racers, #Quran, #unset, #Zen   object:1.100 - The Racers   class:chapter   --   1. By The Racers panting.   2. Igniting sparks.

1.rb - Old Pictures In Florence, #Browning - Poems, #Robert Browning, #Poetry   You live-there's The Racers' frieze to follow:    You die-there's the dying Alexander.

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The Prisoner of Second Avenue (1975) ::: 6.7/10 -- PG | 1h 38min | Comedy | 5 May 1975 (Sweden) -- A suddenly-unemployed company executive suffers a nervous breakdown, and his supporting wife tries everything to console him and pick up the slack. Director: Melvin Frank Writers:

The Prisoner of Zenda (1937) ::: 7.7/10 -- Approved | 1h 41min | Adventure, Drama, Romance | 3 September 1937 -- The Prisoner of Zenda Poster An Englishman on a Ruritarian holiday must impersonate the king when the rightful monarch, a distant cousin, is drugged and kidnapped. Directors: John Cromwell, W.S. Van Dyke (uncredited) Writers: Anthony Hope (celebrated novel), John L. Balderston (screen play) | 3 more credits

The Prisoner of Zenda (1952) ::: 7.0/10 -- Approved | 1h 36min | Adventure | 14 November 1952 (USA) -- An Englishman vacationing in a Ruritarian kingdom is recruited to impersonate his cousin, the soon-to-be-crowned king after the monarch is drugged and kidnapped. Director: Richard Thorpe Writers:

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Nanbaka 2 -- -- Satelight -- 12 eps -- Web manga -- Action Comedy Drama -- Nanbaka 2 Nanbaka 2 -- The second part of Nanbaka. The prisoners and their guards continue their comfortable lives at Nanba Prison. However, from the shadows emerges a new threat: Enki Gokuu, a person from Samon's past, who has mysterious goals of his own. -- -- Licensor: -- Funimation -- ONA - Jan 4, 2017 -- 98,817 7.50

Nanbaka 2 -- -- Satelight -- 12 eps -- Web manga -- Action Comedy Drama -- Nanbaka 2 Nanbaka 2 -- The second part of Nanbaka. The prisoners and their guards continue their comfortable lives at Nanba Prison. However, from the shadows emerges a new threat: Enki Gokuu, a person from Samon's past, who has mysterious goals of his own. -- ONA - Jan 4, 2017 -- 98,817 7.50

Norageki! -- -- Sunrise -- 1 ep -- Original -- Mystery Sci-Fi Space -- Norageki! Norageki! -- In an isolated prison, there are only four prisoners and a cat. One day, a power outage opens all the locks and all of the prisoners are released. However, all of the guards are nowhere to be seen and there are no exits. An extraordinary event occurs in response to an old man's strange behavior. -- -- (Source: ANN) -- -- Licensor: -- Sentai Filmworks -- OVA - Jan 22, 2011 -- 9,499 6.16

Seikai no Senki II -- -- Sunrise -- 10 eps -- Light novel -- Action Military Romance Sci-Fi Space -- Seikai no Senki II Seikai no Senki II -- Due to a lack of ambassadors for the recently-conquered worlds the rapidly advancing fleet of the Bebaus brothers leave behind, Lafiel is appointed Territorial Ambassador of the planet Lobnas II. Upon arriving to the planet Jinto and Lafiel discover that the planet was used by the United Mankind as a prison planet and now has a million prisoners on the only inhabited island. The prisoners are parted in three blocks. The western where women are housed, the eastern belongs to the men and the central is mixed under the restriction that all prisoners living there are sterilized. The women in the western sector want to emigrate from the planet of fear for the men and when they do the men in the east rebel, overthrowing the guards and capturing Jinto to try to stop the emigration of the women. At the same time an enemy fleet heads toward the system forcing Lafiel to abandon Jinto. -- -- (Source: ANN) -- -- Licensor: -- Bandai Entertainment, Funimation -- TV - Jul 11, 2001 -- 20,527 7.83

Arrival (The Prisoner)

Chapter 6: The Prisoner

Checkmate (The Prisoner)

Dance of the Dead (The Prisoner)

Fall Out (The Prisoner)

Free for All (The Prisoner)

Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban

Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (film)

Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (soundtrack)

Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban (video game)

James Carter and the Prisoners

List of The Prisoner episodes

Many Happy Returns (The Prisoner)

Michael Vey: The Prisoner of Cell 25

Once Upon a Time (The Prisoner)

Release the Prisoners to Spring

Rover (The Prisoner)

The Prisoner

The Prisoner's Dilemma (Prison Break)

The Prisoner's Song

The Prisoner (1920 film)

The Prisoner (1949 film)

The Prisoner (2009 miniseries)

The Prisoner of Benda

The Prisoner of Chteau d'If

The Prisoner of Chillon

The Prisoner of Corbal

The Prisoner of Dahomey

The Prisoner of Heaven

The Prisoner of Santa Cruz

The Prisoner of Second Avenue

The Prisoner of St. Petersburg

The Prisoner of the Caucasus

The Prisoner of the Iron Mask

The Prisoner of the Maharaja

The Prisoner of Zenda

The Prisoner of Zenda (1979 film)

The Prisoner of Zenda (disambiguation)

The Prisoners

The Prisoners of Shanghai

The Prisoners (The Walking Dead)

The Prisoner (video game)

The Village (The Prisoner)