DISCLAIMER This program was recorded at the Valley Forge Remembrance Society’s Summer Reading Events series, in Valley Forge, PA on the 21st of June, 2018 and features musical performances and readings by the band Broken Soldier. The views and contents expressed in these recordings are those of the authors and do not necessarily express those of the host or the event. No identification with actual places and buildings or organizations is intended or should be inferred. No person or entity of this program received any payment or anything of value, nor entered into any contract with a Supreme Being in connection with the philosophical views and fictional accounts set forth herein. No responsibility for the approximate one-hour of your lifetime spent listening to this program will be taken or compensation offered for any offense which may be taken or suffered by way of its contents in the present or the future. So please relax and sit back with your preferred refreshments and paraphernalia while you listen to, Broken Soldier: Live at the Valley Forge Remembrance Society’s Summer Reading Events.

THE SONG OF ROLAND Sir Olivier to the peak hath clomb Looks far on the realm of Spain therefrom He sees the Saracen power arrayed Helmets gleaming with gold inlaid Shields and hauberks in serried row Spears with pennons that from them flow He may not reckon the mighty mass So far their numbers his thoughts surpass All in bewilderment and dismay Down from the mountain he takes his way Comes to the Franks this tale to say Roland, Roland, let wind one blast! Karl will hear ere the gorge be passed I will not sound on my ivory horn: It shall never be spoken to me in scorn That for heathen felons one blast I blew I may not dishonor my lineage true But Iʼll strike ‘ere this fight be oʼer A thousand strokes and seven hundred more And my Durindana shall drip with gore Our Franks will bear them like vassals brave The Saracens flock but to find a grave” Count Roland rideth the battle through With Durindana, to cleave and hew Havoc fell of the foe he made Saracen corpse upon corpse was laid Not one of the Peers can be blamed this day For Franks are fiery to smite and slay Knightly deeds has Count Roland done Respite or rest for his Franks are none Hard they ride on the heathen rear At trot or gallop in full career And when the weapons their hands forsake Then unto trumpet and horn they take Serried they charge in power and pride The Saracens cry “May ill betide The hour we came on this fatal track!” So on their host do they turn the back The Christians cleaving them as they fled Unto Marsil stretch the line of the dead Said Roland, “I will sound my horn” As Karl passes the gorge to warn The Franks, I know, will return apace” Sir Oliver said “Itʼs a foul disgrace On your nobel kindred to wreak such wrong They would bear the stain a lifetime long Not now shall my assent be won Nor shall I say that it is knightly done Both your arms are streaming red In sooth”, said Roland, “good strokes I sped Roland looked Olivier in the face Ghastly paleness was there to trace From his wound did the bright red flow And rain in showers to the earth below “O God” said Roland, is this the end? Of all they prowess, my gentle friend? I know not wither to bear me now: On earth shall never be such as thou Gentle France, thou art overthrown Reft of thy bravest, despoiled lone The Emperorʼs loss is full indeed! At the word he fainted upon his steed Once more to the field doth Roland wend Till he findeth Olivier his friend The lifeless form to his heart he strained And bore him back with what strength remained On a buckler laid him, beside the rest The Bishop assailed them all, and blessed Their dole and pity anew find vent. And Roland maketh his fond lament My Olivier, Oh my chosen one, You were the Duke Renierʼs first son Lord of the March unto River vale To shiver lance and to shatter mail The brave in council to guide and cheer To smite the miscreant foe with fear Was never one so cavalier Death was on him he knew full well Down from his head to his heart it fell On the grass beneath a pine treeʼs shade His face to earth, his form he laid Beneath him placed he his horn and sword And turned his face to the heathen hord Thus hath he done the sooth to show That Karl and his warriors know That the gentle count a conqueror died “Mea Culpa” full oft he cried Roland feeleth his hour at hand On a knoll he lies towards the spanish land With one hand beats he upon his breast “In thy sight, my sins confessed" From my hour of birth, both the great and small Down to this day, I repent it all His glove he raises to God on high Angels of heaven descend him nigh.

GILGAMESH On the Road of the Sun So shrouded in darkness He could see neither what was ahead, nor behind Thick was the darkness And there was no guiding light He could see neither what was ahead, nor behind For days he traveled in this blindness With the companionship of grief He could see neither what was ahead, nor behind And just when it seemed That there was no end (to this loneliness) He felt Enkidu at his side, and said his name (Enkidu) (spoken: Just then a valley came in view, sprinkled with precious stones and fruit-filled vines) Gazing into the valley, overcome with pain Just like a man released from prison, still feels his chains He explained to the valley, just why he had came To bring Enkidu back to life, and share the same delight He held his hands together As if to describe The closeness that he felt, when Edkidu was alive Said we killed Humbaba And the Bull of Heaven too My friend Enkidu died, Lord what my gonna do (spoken: Now suddenly there was a silence, deeper than anyplace they had ever been together) Gilgamesh sat down on the ground and wept Enkidu...Enkidu He had come to find the secret of Eternal life To bring Enkidu back to life Recognizing now the valley was deaf to loss only known to himself Enkidu please don’t go Enkidu please don’t go

OF THE MOST POWERFUL PRAYER AND OF THE HIGHEST WORK OF ALL - MEISTER ELKHART The most powerful prayer and almost the strongest of all to obtain everything and the most honorable of all works is that which proceeds from an empty spirit The emptier the spirit the more is the prayer and the work mighty worthy profitable praiseworthy and perfect the empty spirit can do everything What is an empty spirit? An empty spirit is one that is confused by nothing attached to nothing has not attached its best to any fixed way of acting and has no concern whatever in anything for its own gain for it is all sunk deep down into God’s dearest will and has forsaken its own A man can never perform any work however humble without it gaining strength and power from this We ought to pray so powerfully that we should like to put our every member and strength our two eyes and ears mouth heart and all our senses to work and we should not give up until we find that we wish to be one with him who is present to us and whom we entreat namely...God

CANDIDE - VOLTAIRE Candide, completely bewildered, had not yet figured out quite what was meant by his being a hero. On fine Spring day he took it into his head to go for a long walk, simply by putting one foot in front of the other, in the belief that it was a privilege of the human as of the animal species to use its legs as it pleases.He had not covered two leagues when he was caught up by four other heros, each over six foot tall, who tied him up and marched him off to the cells. He was asked at his court-martial which he preferred: to be flogged by the entire regiment thirty-six times, or receive twelve lead bullets in his skull simultaneously. In vain did he remonstrate with them about freedom of the will, and protest that he preferred neither the one option nor the other; a choice had to be made; he determined, by virtue of that gift of God called freedom, to run the gauntlet thirty-six times. He endured two runs. The regiment numbered two thousand men, which for Candide added up to four thousand strokes, which in turn laid bare the muscles and sinews from the nap of his neck to his buttocks. As they were lining up for the third run, Candide, who could take no more, politely asked if they would instead be so kind as to cave his head in; the plea was granted; he was blindfolded and made to kneel. At this moment the King of the Bulgars was passing by, and inquired as to the condemned man’s crime; Being a king of rare genius, he understood from everything he learned about Candide that here was a young metaphysician entirely unschooled in the ways of the world, and he granted him his pardon with a clemency whose praises will be sung in all the newspapers for all the ages.

ON THE VANITY AND SUFFERING OF LIFE - ARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER Awakened to life out of the night of unconsciousness, the will finds itself an individual, in an endless and boundless world, among innumerable individuals, all striving, suffering, erring; and as if through a troubled dream it hurries back to its old unconsciousness. Yet till then its desires are limitless, its claims inexhaustible, and every satisfied desire gives rise to a new one. No possible satisfaction in the world could suffice to till its longs, set a goal to tis infinite cravings, and fill the the bottomless abyss of its heart. Life with its hourly, daily, weekly, yearly, little, greater, and great misfortunes, with its deluded hopes and its accidents destroying all our calculations, bears so distinctly the impression of something with which we must become disgusted, that it is hard to conceive how one has been able to mistake this and allow oneself to be persuaded that life is there in order to be thankfully enjoyed, and that man exists in order to be happy. Rather that continual illusion and disillusion, and also the nature of life throughout, presents itself to us as intended and calculated to awaken the conviction that nothing at all is worth our striving, our efforts and struggles, that all good things are vanity, the world in all its ends bankrupt, and life a business which does not cover its expenses. And rightly so, for all that arises Is worthy only of being destroyed Hence were it better that nothing arose

THE SOY MILK AND THE EMPTY CHAIR - JEF BETZ The soy milk and the empty chair I heard your voice and then your laughter Everyone at the table laughed without a care The soy milk and the empty chair I looked up from where I sat A tweed sport coat and an old felt hat A sudden breeze that chilled the air The soy milk and the empty chair The foot steps and the open door A figure that casts no shadow Everyone carried on as if unaware The soy milk and the empty chair

INFERNO - AUGUST STRINDBERG After having made up my mind that I would wander about until day broke, I went out. The night was dark, the village was asleep, but the dogs were not, and, at a summons from one, the whole pack swarmed around me, their gaping jaws and gleaming eyes forcing me to beat a retreat. When I got back and opened the door of my room it seems to me that the whole place was filled by animate an hostile beings. There was not a bit of room anywhere, and I felt as if I were pushing my way through a crowd of people as I tried to reach my bed. Resigned, and resolved to die, I sank upon it. But at the last moment, just as I was suffocating in the drip of the invisible vulture, someone pulled me from my bed and the hunt of the furies was on again. Defeated, all my courage gone, driven frantic, I yielded to the Unseen and abandoned the battlefield of this unequal struggle. I tapped on the door of the sitting-room on the other side of the passage. My mother who was still up and rapt in prayer, opened it. The expression that came on to her face as soon as she saw me gave me a feeling of deep aversion for myself. ʻWhat is i you want my child?ʼ ʻI want to die and then to be burned, or rather to be burned alive.ʼ Not another word did I need to utter. She had understood me, but even as she struggled against her feeling of dread, compassion and pious mercy got the upper hand and she herself made the sofa ready for me, before retiring to the inner room where she slept with the child. By chance, always the same satanic chance, the sofa was exactly opposite the the window and, as the same chance would have it, the window had no blind. The black window, giving on to the dar of night, stared me in the face, and, what was more, it was through this very window that the gust of wind had whistled that evening as we sat at table. At the end of my tether, I sank on to my couch, cursing this omnipresent, inescapable chance that pursued me with the obvious intention of making me the victim of persecution mania. For five minutes I was allowed to rest, my eyes fixed on the square of black. Then the unseen spectre came creeping upon my body and I got up. I remained standing in the middle of the room like a statue for I do not know how long, transformed into a stylite, sleeping and waking by turns. Who was it who ha given me the strength with which to suffer? Who was it who denied me death, which would deliver me from my tortures? Was it He, the Lord over life and death, to whom I had given offense when, after reading the work ʻOn the Delight of Dyingʼ, I had experimented with suicide, believing myself ripe for eternal life?

AURELIA - GERARD DE NERVAL During the night my delirium grew worse and more so in the early hours when I found that I was tied down. I succeeded in freeing myself from the straightjacket and towards morning walked about the various wards. I had the idea that I had become like a god, possessed of powers of healing, so that I put my hands on some of the patients. Going up to a statue of the Virgin I took off its crown of artificial flowers in order to test the powers in me. I walked in long strides, talking in an animated way of the ignorance of men who believed they could be cured by science alone, and seeing a bottle of ether on a table I drank it in one gulp. A hospital assistant, with a face I compared to an angel’s, tried to top me, but I was supported by neurotic strength and , just as I was about to overthrow him, I stopped ad told him he did not understand my mission. Doctors came along then and I went on with my harangue on the impotence of their art. Then, though I had no shoes on, I went down the stairs and, coming to a garden, I went out and picked flowers there, strolling about on the grass. One of my friends had returned to fetch me. So i left the garden and, while I was speaking to him, they thrust me into a straightjacket and made me get into a cab and I was taken away to an asylum outside Paris. As soon as I found myself among the insane, I realized that everything had been an illusion for me until then. However, the assurances that I attributed to the goddess Isis seemed to realize themselves by a series of trials to which I had to submit. So I accepted them with resignation.

OLD TOWN - THE SOLDIER Old Town, Old Town Old Town down on your bended knee Yeah well, can you still hold your head up And do you still sell groceries Down in Old Town, Old Town Chinatown Old Town, Old Town Better get back up on your achin’ feet Yeah well, you’ve got to keep on moving Old Town police marching on down the street Down in Old Town, Old Town Chinatown Old Town, Old Town Old Town make up your dying bed Yeah well, they’ve come to tear you down Great god and build you back up again Down in Old Town, Old Town Chinatown Old Town, Old Town Will you ever be the same Yeah well, standing at the Greyhound Station Great god to start your life again Down in Old Town, Old Town Chinatown

EN ROUTE - JORIS-KARL HUYSMANS When he was in his chamber he desired to pray, and fell on his knees at this bedside. This was abominable; for memories of Florence recurred to him. He rose, but the old aberrations returned. He thought of that creature, her strange tastes, her mania for biting his ears, for drinking toilet scents in little glasses, for nibbling bread and butter with caviare and dates. She was so wild, and so strange; a fool no doubt, but obscure. “And if she were in this room, before you, what would you do? He stammered to himself: “I would try not to yield” “You lie; admit then that you would send your conversion, the monastery, all to the devil”. He grew pale at the thought; the possibility of his cowardice was a punishment. To have communicated, when on was no more certain of the future, no more certain of oneself, was almost a sacrilege, he thought. And he became angry. Up till now he had kept right, but the vision of Florence subdued him. He threw himself in desperation, on a chair, no longer knowing what would become of him, gathering what courage remained to him to descend to the church, where of Office was beginning. He dragged himself there, and held himself down, assailed by filthy temptations, disgusted with himself, feeling his will yielding, wounded in every part. And when he was in the court he remained overwhelmed, asking himself where he could take shelter. Every place had become hostile to him; in his cell were carnal memories, outside were temptations against Faith, “or rather,” he cried, “I carry these with me always. My God, my God! I was yesterday so tranquil”. He strolled by chance into an alley, when a new phenomenon arose.

THE DRUNKARD - CHARLES BAUDELAIRE My wife is dead, and I am free Now I can drink both night and day When I came home without my pay Her crying upset me horribly Now I am happy as a king The air is soft. The sky is clear Ah, what a lovely spring, this year I courted her in such a spring Now I can drink to drown my care As much wine as her tomb would hold The tomb where she lies pale and cold And that will be no small affair For I have thrown her, body and limb, In an old well; I even threw All the loose stones around the brim On top of her. Good Riddance too! I asked her in the name of Christ To whom our wedding vows were told To be my sweetheart as of old To come to a forsaken tryst We had when we were young and gay That everything might be the same And she the foolish creature came! We all have our weak moments eh? She was attractive still, all right Though faded, I still lover her more Than there was rhyme or reason for I had to end it, come what might Nobody understands me. What’s The use of wasting my good breath Explaining to these stupid sots The mysteries of love and death They take their women by routine These louts - the way they eat and drink Which one has ever stopped to think What the word love might really mean And I will lay me down, I swear Upon the highroad happily And sleep like an old dog, be sure Right where the heavy trucks go by Loaded with gravel and manure The wheel can smear my brains out - aye Or it can break me like a clod In two, or it can mash me flat I care about as much for that As for the long white beard of God

THE SORROWS OF YOUNG WERTHER - JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE She does not see, she does not feel, that she is preparing a poison which will destroy me and herself, and I sip to the bottom, with fullest enjoyment, the cup she hands me for my ruin. Of what avail is the kind gaze with which she often...often?...no, not often, but sometimes looks at me, the complaisance with which she receives an involuntary expression of my emotion, the sympathy with my suffering that is delineated on her brow? Yesterday, as I was departing, she held out her hand and said, “Adieu, dear Werther!” Dear Werther! It was the first time that she had called me “dear”, and it sent a shiver all through me. I have repeated it to myself a hundred times. And last evening, as I was about to go to bed and was chatting about all sorts of things with myself, I said all at once, “Good night, dear Werther!” and afterwards I had to laugh at myself.

O WHY WAS I BORN WITH A DIFFERENT FACE- WILLIAM BLAKE O why was I born with a different face? Why was I not born like the rest of my race? When I look, each one starts! when I speak I offend; Then I’m silent & passive & lose every friend Then my verse I dishonor, My pictures despise, My person degrade & my temper chastise; And the pen is my terror, the pencil my shame; All my Talents I bury, and dead is my Fame. I am either too low or too highly priz’d; When Elate I am envy’d, When Meek I’m despis’d

POSTSCRIPT - ECCLESIASTES 3:22 Wherefore I perceive that there is nothing better, than that a man should rejoice in his own works; for that is his portion; for who shall bring him to see what shall be after him.