Ùrachadh mu Dheireadh 21/03/2017
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TIOTAL
'The Most Glorious Strip of Bunting'
EXTERNAL ID
AB_LL_JOHN_MCGILL
DEIT
2008
LINN
2000an
CRUTHADAIR
John McGill
NEACH-FIOSRACHAIDH
Am Baile
AITHNEACHADH MAOINE
1385
KEYWORDS
claistinneach
cruthan-tìre litreachais

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Tha a' chuibhreann chlaistinneach seo o 'The Most Glorious Strip of Bunting' le John McGill, foillsichte an 2007.

'Tyson, virtually naked when they parted from the Polaris, his spare britches stolen on the first night of their drift, stands in his ragged sealskin at the mercy of every draught and worries for his testicles. But there are moments of intimation even for him: icebergs, rendered unstable by the grinding pack, topple with shock-waves that rattle the million tons of their floe; clouds clear to reveal the myriad twinklings of the clearest firmament ever seen by human eyes; ghostly paraselenes - phantom moons - cancel hatred and bring the whole company together for brief minutes of shared wonder; and night upon night they hear, not in their ears but in their hearts and bones, the silken music of the aurora. They watch it dance, and Meyer taunts Tyson with the glory of it.

'I suppose you regard it as a manifestation of the divine.'

Tyson does. 'Don't you, Mr Meyer?'

For Meyer it proclaims the failure of the North Polar Expedition, and Tyson does not disagree - but the scientist needs an argument.

'I question the wisdom, if not the existence, of a deity who has to patch and mend. He pitches this benighted land into endless night, then comforts the bears and the eskimos with pretty displays of electrical discharge.'

Tyson raises his hand toward the shimmering green and yellow curtain that sweeps across the southwestern sky. 'I feel no need to question this,' he says.

Meyer laughs and there is a hint of German, a delicate lacing of Doctor Bessel, in his reply. 'Not even to ask why he troubled to make the darkness and the desolation in the first place?'

Tyson wonders if the theological speculation will continue when the flesh has properly wasted from their bones, whether Meyer will still be interested in metaphysical pointscoring when they have eaten the last dog and are turning to the sledge-lashings and the lamp-oil. 'Precisely in order that he might make the display. This might be as close as we are allowed to looking him in the face,' he says.

Meyer has uncased his sextant, but begins now to pack it again. 'You might ask him in your prayers to spare us the divine front tomorrow. I can get no bearing n Cassiopeia tonight.'

Rugadh John McGill ann an Glaschu an 1946 agus chaidh e dhan sgoil 's dhan oilthigh an sin. Rinn e treanadh mar thidsear ann an Dùn Èideann agus an uair sin theagaisg e Beurla ann an Arcaibh, an Sealtainn, sa Ghearmailt is ann an siorrachd Lincoln. Tha Iain a-nis a' fuireach air tuathanas air cost an iar mòr-thir Arcaibh, faisg air baile Linn na Cloiche, Skara Brae.

Airson stiùireadh mu bhith a’ cleachdadh ìomhaighean agus susbaint eile, faicibh duilleag ‘Na Cumhaichean air Fad.’
’S e companaidh cuibhrichte fo bharantas clàraichte ann an Alba Àir. SC407011 agus carthannas clàraichte Albannach Àir. SC042593 a th’ ann an High Life na Gàidhealtachd.
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'The Most Glorious Strip of Bunting'

2000an

claistinneach; cruthan-tìre litreachais

Am Baile

Literary Landscapes: John McGill

Tha a' chuibhreann chlaistinneach seo o 'The Most Glorious Strip of Bunting' le John McGill, foillsichte an 2007.<br /> <br /> 'Tyson, virtually naked when they parted from the Polaris, his spare britches stolen on the first night of their drift, stands in his ragged sealskin at the mercy of every draught and worries for his testicles. But there are moments of intimation even for him: icebergs, rendered unstable by the grinding pack, topple with shock-waves that rattle the million tons of their floe; clouds clear to reveal the myriad twinklings of the clearest firmament ever seen by human eyes; ghostly paraselenes - phantom moons - cancel hatred and bring the whole company together for brief minutes of shared wonder; and night upon night they hear, not in their ears but in their hearts and bones, the silken music of the aurora. They watch it dance, and Meyer taunts Tyson with the glory of it. <br /> <br /> 'I suppose you regard it as a manifestation of the divine.' <br /> <br /> Tyson does. 'Don't you, Mr Meyer?'<br /> <br /> For Meyer it proclaims the failure of the North Polar Expedition, and Tyson does not disagree - but the scientist needs an argument.<br /> <br /> 'I question the wisdom, if not the existence, of a deity who has to patch and mend. He pitches this benighted land into endless night, then comforts the bears and the eskimos with pretty displays of electrical discharge.'<br /> <br /> Tyson raises his hand toward the shimmering green and yellow curtain that sweeps across the southwestern sky. 'I feel no need to question this,' he says.<br /> <br /> Meyer laughs and there is a hint of German, a delicate lacing of Doctor Bessel, in his reply. 'Not even to ask why he troubled to make the darkness and the desolation in the first place?'<br /> <br /> Tyson wonders if the theological speculation will continue when the flesh has properly wasted from their bones, whether Meyer will still be interested in metaphysical pointscoring when they have eaten the last dog and are turning to the sledge-lashings and the lamp-oil. 'Precisely in order that he might make the display. This might be as close as we are allowed to looking him in the face,' he says.<br /> <br /> Meyer has uncased his sextant, but begins now to pack it again. 'You might ask him in your prayers to spare us the divine front tomorrow. I can get no bearing n Cassiopeia tonight.'<br /> <br /> Rugadh John McGill ann an Glaschu an 1946 agus chaidh e dhan sgoil 's dhan oilthigh an sin. Rinn e treanadh mar thidsear ann an Dùn Èideann agus an uair sin theagaisg e Beurla ann an Arcaibh, an Sealtainn, sa Ghearmailt is ann an siorrachd Lincoln. Tha Iain a-nis a' fuireach air tuathanas air cost an iar mòr-thir Arcaibh, faisg air baile Linn na Cloiche, Skara Brae.