NB, prefatory: i've renamed my friends feed here on lj several times in the past ten+ years but the name before the diaspora stuck ever since (perhaps i grew tired of change in the face of that): grappled unto my soul with hoops of steel.
i almost never check my stichomancy anymore.
this morning, i did. the first such entry for the modern me was from the eleventh of thirteen short stories collected in 'in a german pension', the first published work by katherine mansfield:
squeezed into the peasant cart and driven by the landlord, who showed his contempt for mother earth by spitting savagely every now and again, we jolted home again, and the nearer we came to mindelbau the more we loved it and one another.
“we must have many excursions like this,” said herr erchardt to me, “for one surely gets to know a person in the simple surroundings of the open air—one shares the same joys—one feels friendship. what is it your shakespeare says? one moment, i have it. the friends thou hast, and their adoption tried—grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel!”
“but,” said i, feeling very friendly towards him, “the bother about my soul is that it refuses to grapple anybody at all—and i am sure that the dead weight of a friend whose adoption it had tried would kill it immediately. never yet has it shown the slightest sign of a hoop!”
he bumped against my knees and excused himself and the cart.
“my dear little lady, you must not take the quotation literally. naturally, one is not physically conscious of the hoops; but hoops there are in the soul of him or her who loves his fellow-men.... take this afternoon, for instance. how did we start out? as strangers you might almost say, and yet—all of us—how have we come home?”
the second such entry was from (not at all unexpectedly) the prodigious balzac, and contained the statement:
"i begin to believe that forty-seven per cent is all i shall ever get out of that affair."