The long sobs of the violins of autumn soothe Hili’s heart with a monotonous languor:
H: It’s a mystery.A: What is a mystery?H: Those leaves; they are changing colours every day.
In Polish:
Hili: To jest tajemnica.
Ja: Co jest tajemnicą?
Hili: Te liście zmieniają kolor każdego dnia.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wtx6o7o3-W0
OK, I’ll bite: Is a cat’s colour vision good enough to notice the change in the leaves?
Wikipedia says yes:
Cats can see some colors, and can tell the difference between red, blue and yellow lights, as well as between red and green lights
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cat_senses
“between red and green lights”…so, maybe they could learn how to cross the street safely?
You mean it’s not safe to lick your own bottom in the middle of the road?
Cats are dichromats. Their cones have peak responses to wavelengths of 455 nm (violetish blue) and 555 nm (greenish yellow). So yes, they can distinguish red from green, but have trouble distinguishing red from grey or brown.
I am sure there are plenty of other natural clues – day length, temperature, what type of other small creatures are or are not around…
But Hili is talking specifically about leaf color.
The real question is: can cats achieve salvation through good works alone, or must they also have faith?
Is that some type of a godly idol on the right? Bielobog or maybe Czernobog?
From the looks of the picture, I think it is a cat toy. You rub your chin on it and watch it fall to the floor, then look at your person, who gets up out of their chair to yell at you, and you jump down and run away. It works time and time again.
Oh, we have a lot of those cat toys!
When Poland became Christian (a political decision rather than religious), the old pagan art and symbols were incorporated into their newly acquired/imposed beliefs. That looks like a Christian saint done in pagan fashion. The spikes represent the halo. Standard folk art.
It is bearded baby jesus, stunned by all the atheistic activities.
It’s not about the leaves. It’s about life’s inexorable changes and Jerry being gone. Poor Hili.
Of course, the Verlaine poem is immensely evocative (“wounds my heart with monotonous langour…”), both by iteself and with its historical use.
In the last couple years, I’ve learned this one, which is still a month or so early:
I like this. Very applicable to November in Northwestern Ontario. All that’s missing is the snow.