This is what Uncle Bill is getting you for your birthday…a new sleeping bag!!

IDR, RP….look at the zipper on the sleeping bag…GENIUS!!! 😉

Il Diavoletto Rosso is dead. He died in Tokyo the day before yesterday. This announcement will startle many, but few will be grieved by it. The blogger was well known personally or by reputation, in all this country. He had readers in England and in several states of Continental Europe, as well as Japan. But he had few or no friends. The regrets for his death will be suggested principally by the consideration that in him literary art lost one of its most brilliant, but erratic stars.

The character of Mr. IDR we cannot attempt to describe in this very hastily written article. We can but allude to some of the more striking phases.

His conversation was at times almost supra-mortal in its eloquence. His voice was modulated with astonishing skill, and his large and variably expressive eyes looked repose or shot fiery tumult into theirs who listened, while his own face glowed or was changeless in pallor, as his imagination quickened his blood, or drew it back frozen to his heart. His imagery was from the worlds, which no mortal can see, but with the vision of genius.

He was at times a dreamer, dwelling in ideal realms, in heaven or hell, peopled with creations and the accidents of his brain. He walked the streets, in madness or melancholy, with lips moving in indistinct curses, or with eyes upturned in passionate prayers for the happiness of those who at that moment were objects of his idolatry, but never for himself, for he felt, or professed to feel, that he was already damned. He seemed, except when some fitful pursuit subjected his will and engrossed his faculties, always to bear the memory of some controlling sorrow.

He had made up his mind upon the numberless complexities of the social world and the whole system was with him an imposture. This conviction gave a direction to his shrewd and naturally unamiable character. Still though, he regarded society as composed of villains, the sharpness of his intellect was not of that kind which enabled him to cope with villainy, while it continually caused him overshots, to fail of the success of honesty.

Passion, in him, comprehended many of the worst emotions, which militate against human happiness. You could not contradict him, but you raised quick choler. You could not speak of wealth, but his cheek paled with gnawing envy. The astonishing natural advantage of this poor boy, his beauty, his readiness, the daring spirit that breathed around him like a fiery atmosphere, had raised his constitutional self-confidence into an arrogance that turned his very claims to admiration into prejudice against him. Irascible, envious, bad enough, but not the worst, for these salient angles were all varnished over with a cold repellent cynicism while his passions vented themselves in sneers. There seemed to him no moral susceptibility. And what was more remarkable in a proud nature, little or nothing of the true point of honor. He had, to a morbid excess, that desire to rise which is vulgarly called ambition, but no wish for the esteem or the love of his species, only the hard wish to succeed, not shine, not serve, but succeed, that he might have the right to despise a world which galled his self-conceit.

We must omit any particular criticism of Mr. IDR’s works. As a writer of tales it will be admitted generally, that he was scarcely surpassed in ingenuity of construction or effective painting.

As a critic, he was more remarkable as a dissector of sentences than as a commenter upon ideas. He was little better than a carping grammarian.

As a blogger, he will retain a most honorable rank. Of his blog Mr. Willis observes that in his opinion, “it is the most effective single example of fugitive literature ever published in this country, and is unsurpassed in English literature for subtle conceptions, masterly ingenuity of versification, and consistent sustaining of imaginative lift.”

In poetry, as in prose, he was most successful in the metaphysical treatment of the passions. His poems are constructed with wonderful ingenuity, and finished with consummate art. They illustrate a morbid sensitiveness of feeling, a shadowy and gloomy imagination, and a taste almost faultless in the apprehension of that sort of beauty most agreeable to his temper.

We have not learned of the circumstance of his death. It was sudden, and from the fact that it occurred in Tokyo, it is presumed that he was on his return to where he felt the most at home.

“After life’s fitful fever, he sleeps well.”

R&R

Posting belatedly to wish my sister a happy 21st birthday!!

The Wife and I had an awesome time celebrating with her last weekend, shots of tequila and all!

On a final note, I want to focus on the Awesomeness that is my sister….she went out of her way to buy me a six pack of beer last Friday…BECAUSE SHE COULD! It was her first alcohol purchase and it was for me. She Rocks!

I’m glad you enjoyed your Birthday!

Is this a good description? 😉

RP commented on how the PA strip mentioned in the previous post was one of his favorites. So I decided to post the 2004 Penny Arcade Christmas Special for all those to enjoy. It runs along the same theme as the aforementioned strip.

The Last Christmas
The Last Christmas: Page One
The Last Christmas: Page Two
The Last Christmas: Page Three
The Last Christmas: Page Four
The Last Christmas: Page Five

Come to think of it, since it is the Spawn of IDR’s first Christmas, I think Uncle R&R will make it a tradition to read this Christmas Story to the little one every year……yeah, I think that’s a great idea!