(urth) Severian's Mausoleum
Norwood, Frederick Hudson
NORWOODR at mail.etsu.edu
Fri Nov 21 09:29:24 PST 2014
I think the intent is more to personify the door. It is faithless because you trusted it to stay closed, and it failed you.
From: Urth [mailto:urth-bounces at lists.urth.net] On Behalf Of António Pedro Marques
Sent: Friday, November 21, 2014 12:21 PM
To: The Urth Mailing List
Subject: Re: (urth) Severian's Mausoleum
Faithless in that you can have no faith in it.
No dia 21/11/2014, às 15:20, "Norwood, Frederick Hudson" <NORWOODR at mail.etsu.edu<mailto:NORWOODR at mail.etsu.edu>> escreveu:
Just as in the poem the door is faithless for letting in the cold wind, Severian’s door is faithless for failing to remain closed.
From: Urth [mailto:urth-bounces at lists.urth.net] On Behalf Of Robert Pirkola
Sent: Friday, November 21, 2014 10:16 AM
To: urth at urth.net<mailto:urth at urth.net>
Subject: (urth) Severian's Mausoleum
I was struck by the term "faithless door" in the passage describing
Severian's mausoleum " . . . it was the smallness of the room, the
thick walls of masonry, and the single, narrow window with its one
bar, together with the faithless door (so massively heavy) that
remained eternally ajar." (*Shadow and Claw*, pg. 17).
I do not know, and still do not know, what a faithless door is but
while trying to find out, I came across this poem attributed to
William Gifford, called *Epitaph* (1852), which has interesting resonances
with Severian's story:
Where ragged nettles mark the rising ground,
And pois’nous night-shade breathes infection round,
Bill Brazen rots. In the good patriarch’s phrase,
“Evil and few were his unhallow’d days:”
Yet in these few and evil the rank knave
Choused of a head-stone his poor father’s grave;
Abused his mother; grudged his children bread,
And coffin’d them in wig boxes when dead;
Bullied his sister; kicked his wife to th’ door;
Belied the parish books, and starved the poor.
Till grown too bad for this bad town, kind Heaven
Suffer’d the miscreant westward to be driven;
Where three long years in solitary state
He dragg’d the drunken hours through scorn and hate;
Till as he lay one night devoid of rest,
And conscience woke the worm within his breast,
A wint’ry blast, with hoarse, tremendous roar,
Rush’d through the gallery, burst the faithless door,
Approach’d him, touch’d—“Christ Jesus! save,” he cried,
“A wretch! a hateful wretch!"—shook, groan’d, and died.
Now buried here, the scorn that dogg’d his way
Through life, still scents, and opens on his clay.
* * * * * *
Stranger! this scene demands an awful pause:
A vicious world takes arms in virtue’s cause:
Vice cowers beneath the shame she boasts to brave,
And finds chastisement on this side the grave.
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