No Sea Was Ever Sailed

FeaturedNo Sea Was Ever Sailed


I love it. I’m signing each one. The first proof of “No Sea Was Ever Sailed” is in, and I couldn’t be more pleased. Printed on sturdy, high-quality watercolor paper, 16″ x 20,” great for framing, gifting. cordair.com/artists/cordai

No Sea Was Ever Sailed

No sea was ever sailed
By fear of drowning in the deep.
No bridge was ever built
By huddled souls in castle’s keep.
No cloud slipped ‘neath the wing
Of one who dared not leave the ground.
No daunting height was scaled
Without a test of holds unsound.

No barn was ever raised
By hands that wouldn’t plant in spring.
No city skyline drawn
By those whose vision wouldn’t sing.
No rocket ship was launched
Without a dream to touch the stars.
No man stood on the Moon
Who didn’t long to land on Mars.

No writer wrote a wonder
Without braving the first line.
No sculptor carved a marvel
But for craving sight divine.
No dancers spun a ballroom
Before graceless learning turns.
No masterwork was painted
By a critic’s clucks and burns.

No cure was finally bottled
Without trials that failed to save.
No bulb illumed the night
Of those who never left the cave.
No gear turned fine and smoothly
Till the first rough models broke.
No wheel turned light and quickly
Till a rebel carved a spoke.

No friendship grew and strengthened
Without hearts opened to hurt.
No neighbor’s warmth was nurtured
With responses cold and curt.
No lovers’ cove was treasured
More than after storms astern.
No passion’s flame rekindled
But for bringing fuel to burn.

No man was free a master
Till his mind was unenslaved.
No people shed a tyrant
Till they faced him unafraid.
No peace was long in lasting
When unanswered went the call.
No justice served for any
When no one would stand for all.

No life is fully lived
In pallid dread of pending death.
No fear is faced and conquered
Till accepted with deep breath.
No step into this world
Is ever taken until willed.
When last your eyes have closed
May they’ve seen a life fulfilled.

~ Quent Cordair

Purchase one or more signed prints of “No Sea Was Ever Sailed” at
https://cordair.com/artists/cordair/works/no-sea-was-ever-sailed/index.html
*****

Enjoy more of my poetry & short fiction in my latest collection, My Kingdom, now available in paperback and Kindle editions. ~

I could not put the book down! I read the poems out loud to my kids as though I am Cyrano on stage! Inspires me to be the best I can be! Love it! ~ Heather Pendaris

If you enjoy life and a positive view of mankind, if you are a valuer and enjoy reading uplifting works, you’ll love this collection of short works by Quent Cordair. This is a great book when you just want a short read that will leave you feeling better than when you started, when you need a little emotional fuel. No need to read it as a whole, just enjoy a little morsel when you need it. You will find yourself going back for more, over and over. I have thoroughly enjoyed Quent’s longer works, but they are a deeper dive. This collection can be enjoyed even if you have only short spurts of time available for reading. I highly recommend it. ~ Steve M.

I can only say, if like me you admire human independence and have a belief that each of us are sovereign individuals and that the greatest joy can be found in seeing something admirable, reward yourself with a few hours of pleasure. Buy the real book .. read … enjoy. ~ Garrett Seinen

The My Kingdom collection is now available in paperback and Kindle editions. ~

ScreenShot_20200617184223

*****

If you prefer novels, I write those too. I recommend starting with Genesis, the first part of my five-part Idolatry saga. ~

Genesis

Part I of Idolatry

In the twilight of the Roman Empire, a sculptor struggles to keep an 800-year dream alive while honoring the love of his life and raising his adopted son. Part I of the epic five-part Idolatry saga, the story of a wealthy young heir and a devout Christian girl who find themselves at the heart of a 2400-year struggle for the soul of Western Civilization.

ScreenShot_20200617193321

“Beautifully written, on the order of Ken Follett’s Pillars of the Earth, with the historical insight of James Michener, it brings to life a time of great thought, great art, and its clash with religious fanaticism. Cordair writes with a poet’s sense of scene and nuance and gives us a great deal of insight into the mind of a sculptor; I found this an exciting and easy read.” ~ Alan Nitikman

Enjoy Genesis in paperbackKindle, or Audiobook today. ~

*****

Quent Cordair Fine Artlocated in beautiful Napa, California, was established by artist Quent Cordair in 1996. As a premier provider of contemporary Romantic Realism in painting, sculpture, and drawing, QCFA has grown to serve an international clientele of private and corporate collectors. Explore our select offerings today at cordair.com. ~


 

“Between Venus & Mars” & more ~

Featured“Between Venus & Mars” & more ~

The Poetry of Quent Cordair


Between Venus and Mars

Crickets below, dippers above,
Night rising cool around the foxglove,
Floor of warm stone, ceiling of stars,
Jewel on the ring between Venus and Mars.
You’ll find my address between Venus and Mars.

Striding the plain, mountains surround,
Strove to find flight, broke the earthbound,
Made from this place, evolved and sublime,
Blessedly born and right for the time,
Mastering all but the passage of time.

Tick the count down until thunder and burn,
Children will fly, no thought of return,
While I remain, wave to their wave,
Watching them wing from the home of the brave.
I’ll keep the lights lit on the home of the brave.

*****


My Kingdom

My kingdom has no subjects,
No serfs, their backs to bear
The weight of lives of others;
None here are forced to share.

A kingdom filled with kings and queens,
Their castles great and small,
With princes blue, princesses true,
Good dogs to guard them all.

A kingdom built with brains and brawn,
Each year less brawn than brains;
We sow and reap, invent machines
That till the fertile plains.

We sail and dream, we wing the skies,
Beguile with arts refined;
We trade for riches far and near,
Hold forth in courts of mind.

We mine and dine, automatize
The tasks that bore to tears;
Our engineers, second to none,
Lean back and toast to cheers.

Our six policemen quite suffice;
We’ve seven hard Marines
And thirteen jets with bombs so smart
That no one intervenes.

We welcome independent souls,
No honest man we shun—
Our markets thrive on goods well made,
On services well done.

Be immigrant or passing guest,
As equals all we greet;
New buyers all, new sellers some,
New friends and loves to meet.

My kingdom has no subjects,
No serfs, their backs to bear
The weight of lives of others—
Come join us if you dare.

*****


Now and Then

The fractured image flickering over the millennia,
broken and begrimed,
Healing for brief seconds, a few minutes,
now and then—
The wholeness, the clean, bright view, coming suddenly
visible again
Through the curtaining Dark—
And the Age of Man
yet lives.

*****


Spirited Gods

Spirited gods of body and mind,
Cleaving the earth and taking the find,
Arranging the atoms above in a bend,
Beneath which to dine, to dance, and attend
To desirable ends and needful things,
Burning the coal, inventing the wings
Upon which to soar like winged beasts do,
While raising fat herds for the savory stew,
Weaving silk threads, carving bone combs,
Harvesting timber for warm and dry homes,
Gathering the knowledge to hold in one hand,
On tablets of plastic and metal and sand,
Harnessing horses and nuclear parts;
Rocket plumes rise over rickety carts;
From building mud huts to high towers of glass,
From warring with spears to debating with class,
Climbing from caves to the moon and to Mars,
Masters of nature, eyeing the stars.

*****


The Independent Power

For the sucker born each minute
There’s a con born every hour,
But blessedly each day is born
The independent power
Who’s neither host nor parasite,
Who’s neither lord nor bower,
Who keeps his mind with sober art,
Before no king would cower;
He earns his take and pays his due—
A man, a sovereign tower.

*****


At Last

It matters not which border crossed,
From desert dry or tempest tossed,
To waves of grain and freedom’s sigh,
From womb’s dark hold to first-light’s cry—
You’re here, you’re here, at last.

It matters not what age you came,
Eight months or eighty years, the same,
What color skin your parents’ face,
What faith from which they fled to grace—
You’re here, you’re here, at last.

Now eye to eye, measuring minds,
The hopeful search for justice finds
No honest man can blindly curse
One more like he in chorus and verse
Than different—yes, in essence we
Are species same, from nose to knee—
As equals born with equal right
To live and work and dream the night
Where best we may, and here you are,
Your place of birth be near or far,
Your life and loves as dear to you
As mine to me—and this is true:
As innocent till guilty proved,
Against you none are justly moved.

So come, let’s toast to freedom’s song,
And may someday you pass along—
It matters not which border crossed,
To nurse’s hands or shoreline lost—
You’re here, you’re here, at last.

*****

No Sea Was Ever Sailed

No sea was ever sailed
By fear of drowning in the deep.
No bridge was ever built
By huddled souls in castle’s keep.
No cloud slipped ‘neath the wing
Of one who dared not leave the ground.
No daunting height was scaled
Without a test of holds unsound.

No barn was ever raised
By hands that wouldn’t plant in spring.
No city skyline drawn
By those whose vision wouldn’t sing.
No rocket ship was launched
Without a dream to touch the stars.
No man stood on the Moon
Who didn’t long to land on Mars.

No writer wrote a wonder
Without braving the first line.
No sculptor carved a marvel
But for craving sight divine.
No dancers spun a ballroom
Before graceless learning turns.
No masterwork was painted
By a critic’s clucks and burns.

No cure was finally bottled
Without trials that failed to save.
No bulb illumed the night
Of those who never left the cave.
No gear turned fine and smoothly
Till the first rough models broke.
No wheel turned light and quickly
Till a rebel carved a spoke.

No friendship grew and strengthened
Without hearts opened to hurt.
No neighbor’s warmth was nurtured
With responses cold and curt.
No lovers’ cove was treasured
More than after storms astern.
No passion’s flame rekindled
But for bringing fuel to burn.

No man was free a master
Till his mind was unenslaved.
No people shed a tyrant
Till they faced him unafraid.
No peace was long in lasting
When unanswered went the call.
No justice served for any
When no one would stand for all.

No life is fully lived
In pallid dread of pending death.
No fear is faced and conquered
Till accepted with deep breath.
No step into this world
Is ever taken until willed.
When last your eyes have closed
May they’ve seen a life fulfilled.

*****


To Your You Being You

To the best that’s within you,
To your lift and your try,
To your will to see dawn,
To your laugh while you cry,

To your hope through the sorrow,
To your float over pain,
To your push through the dark,
To your dance in the rain,

To your rise from the ash,
To your straightening the bend,
To your fire to the lie,
To your go till the end,

To your cutting the knot,
To your swearing anew,
To your mind of your own,
To your you being you.

*****

Enjoy more of my poetry & short fiction in my latest collection, My Kingdom, now available in paperback and Kindle editions. ~

I could not put the book down! I read the poems out loud to my kids as though I am Cyrano on stage! Inspires me to be the best I can be! Love it! ~ Heather Pendaris

If you enjoy life and a positive view of mankind, if you are a valuer and enjoy reading uplifting works, you’ll love this collection of short works by Quent Cordair. This is a great book when you just want a short read that will leave you feeling better than when you started, when you need a little emotional fuel. No need to read it as a whole, just enjoy a little morsel when you need it. You will find yourself going back for more, over and over. I have thoroughly enjoyed Quent’s longer works, but they are a deeper dive. This collection can be enjoyed even if you have only short spurts of time available for reading. I highly recommend it. ~ Steve M.

I can only say, if like me you admire human independence and have a belief that each of us are sovereign individuals and that the greatest joy can be found in seeing something admirable, reward yourself with a few hours of pleasure. Buy the real book .. read … enjoy. ~ Garrett Seinen

The My Kingdom collection is now available in paperback and Kindle editions. ~

*****

Or if you prefer novels, I write those too. I recommend starting with Genesis, the first part of my five-part Idolatry saga. ~

Genesis

Part I of Idolatry

In the twilight of the Roman Empire, a sculptor struggles to keep an 800-year dream alive while honoring the love of his life and raising his adopted son. Part I of the epic five-part Idolatry saga, the story of a wealthy young heir and a devout Christian girl who find themselves at the heart of a 2400-year struggle for the soul of Western Civilization.

ScreenShot_20200617193321

“Beautifully written, on the order of Ken Follett’s Pillars of the Earth, with the historical insight of James Michener, it brings to life a time of great thought, great art, and its clash with religious fanaticism. Cordair writes with a poet’s sense of scene and nuance and gives us a great deal of insight into the mind of a sculptor; I found this an exciting and easy read.” ~ Alan Nitikman

Enjoy Genesis in paperback, Kindle, or Audiobook today. ~

*****

Quent Cordair Fine Art, located in beautiful Napa, California, was established by artist Quent Cordair in 1996. As a premier provider of contemporary Romantic Realism in painting, sculpture, and drawing, QCFA has grown to serve an international clientele of private and corporate collectors. Explore our select offerings today at cordair.com. ~


 

No Sea Was Ever Sailed

FeaturedNo Sea Was Ever Sailed

*****

No sea was ever sailed
By fear of drowning in the deep.
No bridge was ever built
By huddled souls in castle’s keep.
No cloud slipped ‘neath the wing
Of one who dared not leave the ground.
No daunting height was scaled
Without a test of holds unsound.

No barn was ever raised
By hands that wouldn’t plant in spring.
No city skyline drawn
By those whose vision wouldn’t sing.
No rocket ship was launched
Without a dream to touch the stars.
No man stood on the Moon
Who didn’t long to land on Mars.

No writer wrote a wonder
Without braving the first line.
No sculptor carved a marvel
But for craving sight divine.
No dancers spun a ballroom
Before graceless learning turns.
No masterwork was painted
By a critic’s clucks and burns.

No cure was finally bottled
Without trials that failed to save.
No bulb illumed the night
Of those who never left the cave.
No gear turned fine and smoothly
Till the first rough models broke.
No wheel turned light and quickly
Till a rebel carved a spoke.

No friendship grew and strengthened
Without hearts opened to hurt.
No neighbor’s warmth was nurtured
With responses cold and curt.
No lovers’ cove was treasured
More than after storms astern.
No passion’s flame rekindled
But for bringing fuel to burn.

No man was free a master
Till his mind was unenslaved.
No people shed a tyrant
Till they faced him unafraid.
No peace was long in lasting
When unanswered went the call.
No justice served for any
When no one would stand for all.

No life is fully lived
In pallid dread of pending death.
No fear is faced and conquered
Till accepted with deep breath.
No step into this world
Is ever taken until willed.
When last your eyes have closed
May they’ve seen a life fulfilled.

~ Quent Cordair

*****
Signed prints of “No Sea Was Ever Sailed,” on quality watercolor paper, are now available for purchase at https://cordair.com/artists/gifts/works/no-sea-was-ever-sailed/index.html

No Sea held in hand 071720a

For more information or to order your print of “No Sea Was Ever Sailed,” please visit  the gallery ordering page today ~

*******
Enjoy more of my poetry & short fiction in my latest collection, My Kingdom, now available in paperback and Kindle editions. ~

I could not put the book down! I read the poems out loud to my kids as though I am Cyrano on stage! Inspires me to be the best I can be! Love it! ~ Heather Pendaris

If you enjoy life and a positive view of mankind, if you are a valuer and enjoy reading uplifting works, you’ll love this collection of short works by Quent Cordair. This is a great book when you just want a short read that will leave you feeling better than when you started, when you need a little emotional fuel. No need to read it as a whole, just enjoy a little morsel when you need it. You will find yourself going back for more, over and over. I have thoroughly enjoyed Quent’s longer works, but they are a deeper dive. This collection can be enjoyed even if you have only short spurts of time available for reading. I highly recommend it. ~ Steve M.

I can only say, if like me you admire human independence and have a belief that each of us are sovereign individuals and that the greatest joy can be found in seeing something admirable, reward yourself with a few hours of pleasure. Buy the real book .. read … enjoy. ~ Garrett Seinen

The My Kingdom collection is now available in paperback and Kindle editions. ~

ScreenShot_20200617184223

*****

If you prefer novels, I write those too. I recommend starting with Genesis, the first part of my five-part Idolatry saga. ~

Genesis

Part I of Idolatry

In the twilight of the Roman Empire, a sculptor struggles to keep an 800-year dream alive while honoring the love of his life and raising his adopted son. Part I of the epic five-part Idolatry saga, the story of a wealthy young heir and a devout Christian girl who find themselves at the heart of a 2400-year struggle for the soul of Western Civilization.

ScreenShot_20200617193321

“Beautifully written, on the order of Ken Follett’s Pillars of the Earth, with the historical insight of James Michener, it brings to life a time of great thought, great art, and its clash with religious fanaticism. Cordair writes with a poet’s sense of scene and nuance and gives us a great deal of insight into the mind of a sculptor; I found this an exciting and easy read.” ~ Alan Nitikman

Enjoy Genesis in paperbackKindle, or Audiobook today. ~

*****

Quent Cordair Fine Artlocated in beautiful Napa, California, was established by artist Quent Cordair in 1996. As a premier provider of contemporary Romantic Realism in painting, sculpture, and drawing, QCFA has grown to serve an international clientele of private and corporate collectors. Explore our select offerings today at cordair.com. ~


 

Someday

FeaturedSomeday

“But in your worst and darkest moments, remember that you have seen another kind of world. Remember that you can reach it whenever you choose to see. Remember that it will be waiting and that’s real, it’s possible — it’s real.” ~ Ayn Rand, The Fountainhead

Someday

Life is short, it’s oft remarked,
Too short, they’ll say, and drift another day,
Mile markers passing, gravestones fey,
Dreams once held like children dear
Last seen along the desert way,
Standing on the baked road shoulder,
Staring in mute disbelief at the pulling away,
Awaiting the change of heart, surely,
A regretful glance back, at least—
Left, dry-eyed and hopeful, with nothing
But to watch the defining lines of intent
Merge and melt into the distant liquid lure,
The languorous placidity that laps against
The morrow and morrow,
The eternal someday into which
The only one who might ever return for them
      has disappeared.

~ Quent Cordair

14 May 2020

Enjoy more acclaimed Cordair poetry & short fiction in My Kingdom, now available in paperback and Kindle editions.

The Robin’s Nest

FeaturedThe Robin’s Nest

*****

“You seek love,” Amelie said, finally, emerging from her long silence. She was studying a ladybug that had lit on the hem of her skirt to wind its way purposefully, probingly along the line of silk stitches. She hadn’t once glanced at Catherine since they’d stopped to sit on the garden bench. “Love is always worth finding, yes,” she continued, “but it is trust I want. If only I might trust again. Trust is more precious than love, you know, more essential. Love depends on trust. Without trust, love is helpless. But with trust, love can soar. Oh, and how love can soar! Only let me find trust again.”

The ladybug paused. It opened its wings once, twice. When it flew, Amelie’s breath caught, her fingers opened reflexively, as though to catch and hold the tiny creature, but her hands remained firmly in her lap, her back straight, head erect as she followed its flight until it was lost in the buzzing haze. She pressed on, the words coming like an intoned rite over the laying of flowers on a fresh grave.

“When trust is broken, when trust is shattered, love can only stare in dumb wonder at the shards of its own reflection, rendered helpless again. When trust has crumbled into dust, to be carried off by the wind, love may persist, love may live on, but it can exist only as a bloodless shade, veiled in torn longing, shrouded in aching need, condemned to floating through the empty and echoing rooms, retracing the steps over and over, touching all the places again and again until the boards and posts are worn and polished smooth. When trust is gone, yes, love may live on, refusing to die, unable to depart, the unevictable tenant of a broken and empty heart.”

Her eyes had remained dry, the tears all long ago cried.

Catherine shifted closer and slipped her arm through, taking Amelie’s hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

Amelie didn’t pull away.

They sat just so for a while, silently, watching the bees work the crepe myrtle tree, flower by flower, the robin building her nest, twig by twig. When they spoke again, it was of things of much and little consequence, but nothing of love or trust. They talked together until the shadows grew long and the primroses were opening to the evening dew. As the rhythm of the crickets’ song enveloped them, they fell into another long silence, a silence as natural and right as the first had been awkward and strained.

“We should be getting back,” Catherine suggested, with little conviction and less desire. “We’ll be missed.” She felt a faint tightening in Amelie’s fingers.

“If we must.”

Still, neither of the young women rose, neither moved, neither wanting to risk breaking the spell, the spell with its suggestion of a possibility of something so unlikely that it might exist only in their imaginations, a possibility neither of them had anticipated, much less dared hope.

But in a moment that had passed unnoticed that afternoon, the prospect of a better, brighter existence in the world had been conceived. Somewhere within a warm and hidden fold of the make-shift womb of clasped palms and interlaced fingers, the seed of something wondrous and impossible had germinated and begun to take form. To many in their respective worlds, to most perhaps, what these two might dare hope to claim in that twilight hour would seem too meager a treasure, a coin too common, a half farthing one mightn’t bother to stoop to retrieve had it fallen in a gutter. But for these two who had seen so much, two who had suffered more than any two should, two who had endured more than most could—two who had managed to survive in near complete isolation, on little more than sheer will, stripped of any and all hope—what they might possess in the moment, even if it proved only fleeting in the end and gone on the morrow, was enough.

In the last of the twilight, as they walked back to the manor, they were arm in arm, holding hands still, neither of them caring much at all, in truth, whether they had been missed. Consequences be damned. Before parting, they promised they would return on the afternoon next, to the bench at the end of the garden, to the sacred privacy of the primroses and crepe myrtle, to check on the robin.

It was only after they had parted, after Amelie had disappeared from view around the corner of the stables, that Catherine’s legs folded beneath her. She sat in the middle of the path, one hand holding her body off the ground, the other clutched to her heart.

Though Amelie’s tears had all long been cried, Catherine’s first had yet to be shed. Her tears flowed now, the first and the rest.

She might have found a friend.

*****

***

Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed the story. “The Robin’s Nest” is from the My Kingdom collection of flash fiction, short stories, poems, and short plays for stage & screen, now available in paperback and Kindle editions. ~

Save the Tigers (free fiction)

FeaturedSave the Tigers (free fiction)

Judging from my social-media feeds, some of my friends are either reaching the bottom of their entertainment barrel or have already poked right through the bottom and started digging. (I wouldn’t name any of the TV shows being mentioned, but let’s just say that even the tigers are reportedly embarrassed to be in one of them.)

Let me help. I’m going to start making some of my 5-star fiction free to download, for a limited time, to help get us through these surreal days with minds and souls intact. I’ve made “Mujahid” a complimentary download through midnight Pacific tomorrow, April 5, 2020. You can read it on any smartphone, iPad, laptop, or desktop using Amazon’s Kindle app.

A wonderful new review of “Mujahid”:

5.0 out of 5 stars. “Efficacy, brilliantly dramatized. I read this screenplay during a layover in the city it is set in, Chicago. Somehow that brings the story closer. It’s a tight, powerful, well done screenplay that dramatizes the fact that your choices and actions do indeed make a difference. As I finished reading, getting to cruising altitude out of Chicago in that collection of a million parts each individually decided upon and assembled into a jetliner taking me affordably across the entire continent in less than a day, I got to observe a toddler stand up on his mom’s lap in the row ahead of mine. He was reaching up and learning that the buttons and vents above him had predictable, repeatable reactions to his manipulations, and his joy at the discovery was brilliant to behold. This resonated so powerfully with what Quent dramatized in his screenplay. The scope of my abstract understanding of human efficacy was expanded, and my perception and appreciation for the joy of it in the concrete was also expanded. Thanks for that, Quent! And hey, without all that “waxing philosophical,” it’s a rocking good tale, too!” ~ Erik Wingren.

Thanks, Erik!

To enjoy “Mujahid” today, click here.

 

The Gravity Field

FeaturedThe Gravity Field

She lay naked, face up, head to the north, feet to the south, arms outstretched, hands east and west, eyes full of stars. Beneath her back the lumped clods of dirt and broken carcasses of last season’s grain, moist from the night’s dew, served well enough for pillow and mattress, meshed with her hair, pressed against her bare skin. The cloudless sky offered no protection. She needed none. She took in the universe until she found her place again in the solar system, in the galaxy, feeling the earth and all its round wholeness—the mountains, the oceans, the molten core—not beneath her but behind, between her body and the sun. She had worked to shift her perception until she experienced the earth’s sphere as it was, tilted, turning on its axis, her body held against its side by gravity alone, its surface curving down and away below her, leaving nothing beneath her feet but the great void. But she wouldn’t fall. She was as attracted to the earth as it was to her, and she was dazzled by the distances the stars had come that night, each and every one, to kiss her body with light.

She lay there until the earth began to chill. When she rose, she brushed the straw and dirt out of her hair, off her body. She dressed and walked back to the limousine, shoes in hand. Her driver would follow the car’s tracks back out to the road. She might not return for another year, or for three, but she would return, as she always did. Why else, but for this, would she have bought the field?

*          *          *

Enjoy more Quent Cordair flash fiction, short stories, poems, and short plays for stage & screen, in paperback and ebook editions. ~

Character

FeaturedCharacter

This poem becomes more relevant by the day, unfortunately. Penned in December of 2016, may “Character” inspire reflection, from now through November and on.

*****
The shuffling line from dock to deck
Turns up the plank to ticket check.
Those early on the rails above
Wave wanly down to ones they love;
A long look down to ones they love.

Mark the ship, her lines and seams,
A welding of designer’s dreams
And builder’s craft—but is she true?
Or will she break against the blue?
How will she fare against the blue?

New captain there, high on the bridge;
A ship so large, his privilege.
It’s whispered that he’s wrecked a few,
Though smaller craft, that much is true;
Not one his fault, that much is true—

Or so it’s sworn by this fresh crew
And owners old with lifeboats new.
All’s well insured with fading ink,
They reassure with touch of drink;
The trembling calms with touch of drink.

The seas ahead are known to swell,
Lift up to heaven, drop to hell,
Loom overhead till pounding down
To crush the air until lungs drown,
With howling winds until lungs drown.

Threatening isles with teething breaks,
A glancing scrape is all it takes
Across a careless bearing laid—
The reckless bet by all is paid;
The helmsman’s due by all is paid.

The wise will eye both ship and man
To measure both with skeptic scan.
The sea cares not for sentiment
Or fervent prayers to heaven sent;
It swallows prayers to heaven sent.

In character of steel and mind,
In ship nor man a weakness find,
On oceans’ floors, if truth be told,
There lies more faith and trust than gold,
There lies more hope than gold.

~ Quent Cordair

“Character” is from the My Kingdom collection of poems, short stories, & short plays for stage & screen, now available in paperback & Kindle editions.

Last Light

FeaturedLast Light

I won’t be laid to rest.
I’ll lay myself down, thank you,
With no pretense of rising again,
All my rising and resting through.
When these curtaining eyes have closed
And this body lies long and still,
I’ll linger yet on the stage
Till after all have gone,
All but the boy in the third row,
The one who looks just like me.
To him I’ll give my solemn, final bow,
And a wink,
Before nodding to the balcony
For the last light
To be brought down.

*****

Enjoy more acclaimed Quent Cordair poetry & short fiction in My Kingdom, now available in paperback and Kindle editions.

In Earthly Peace

FeaturedIn Earthly Peace

For Christmas this year, she asked only for a poem. Her true love gave to her ~

In Earthly Peace

Silent night, holy night,
Lovers lie in starlight bright,
Lips cross lips for untold things,
Limbs cross limbs for forming wings,
Rise in flight through snowfall,
Rise in flight above all.

Silent night, holy night,
Souls betwine in sacred rite,
Mind turns mind in woven dance,
Heart turns heart in spun romance,
Bodies yearn to be one,
Bodies burn to be one.

Silent night, holy night,
Break away to renew sight,
Circle out to circle in,
Parting touch to touch again,
Tears anoint veils of white,
World in waiting veiled white.

Silent night, holy night,
Love’s firstborn will see first light,
Swaddled gift on giving breast,
Cradled close in castle’s nest,
Sleep in earthly peace,
Sleep in earthly peace.

~ Quent Cordair for Linda Cordair, Christmas 2019

Enjoy more acclaimed Cordair poetry & short fiction in My Kingdom, now available in paperback and Kindle editions.

For the Woman Who Has Everything

FeaturedFor the Woman Who Has Everything

I wrote “For the Woman Who Has Everything” before I knew I’d have a stepdaughter named Sarah. Crisp early-winter mornings will often call the opening scenes to mind. The story was selected for publication in the ART Ideas magazine, once upon a time, and later included in my Lunch Break collection, which is still available in paperback and ebook.

*****

Sarah woke to silence. Thin lines of moonlight lay in diagonals across the floor and rose in needles up the walls. She listened for awhile. The only sound was the soft crush of her hair against the pillow.

She slid her legs from beneath the layers of blankets and let her feet touch the chill of the hardwood floor. As she walked, a line of moonlight slipped around one ankle, then the other, ascending deliberately, scanning and measuring her body in strict undulations. At the west window the moon caught her fully, a slender white animal beneath the new winter’s sky….

Read more…

He Completes Me

FeaturedHe Completes Me

I’m very pleased to present the world premiere of “He Completes Me,” for voice and harp, my poem as set to music by composer and creator of new musicals, the excellent Mr. Eric Rockwell. The poem is from the MY KINGDOM collection of poems, short stories, & short plays for stage & screen, now available in paperback and ebook editions at https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07SVGNQG6

Nice

FeaturedNice

Two years ago, St. Augustine, Florida. I’m at a gas station, after having spent some time helping a distraught woman with directions to where she needed to go. She can’t figure out her car’s navigation system. No smart phone. The last person she asked had just confused her more. We figure out her destination. Turns out she had over-shot her exit by thirty minutes. She writes down the steps on paper as we go through it on Google maps, me calming her, talking her off the ledge as we go. She’s terribly relieved.

Her: “Thank you! Thank you so much! You’re so kind. So nice….” She examines my face. “You must be a Christian.”
Me, reflexively: “Oh God, no.”
She’s confounded, disappointed.
Me, hopeful: “I can still be nice, can’t I?”

*****

Enjoy My Kingdom, my latest collection of poems, short stories, & short plays for stage & screen, now available in paperback and Kindle editions.

 

2018 QCFA Self-Made American Award presented to Dr. Leonard Peikoff

Featured2018 QCFA Self-Made American Award presented to Dr. Leonard Peikoff


We recently had the great pleasure and honor to present Dr. Leonard Peikoff with the 2018 QCFA Self-Made American Award. In justice, Dr. Peikoff has earned this and so much more. The text accompanying the award, first announced at the 2019 OCON in Cleveland, follows:

The Self-Made American Award, presented by our gallery, Quent Cordair Fine Art, is awarded annually to an individual who has exhibited exemplary independence, self-responsibility, perseverance, and courage in working to achieve personal and professional ambitions, building a good life, a better life, for himself, as left free to do under the protections provided by the U.S. Constitution.

The term “self-made man” usually denotes an individual who has pulled himself up by his bootstraps and made his way in life by his own hard work, having created his own material success and wealth. Indeed, the first two recipients of this award are exemplary businessmen and entrepreneurs. But as man is a being of self-made wealth and self-made soul, he is also, and even more importantly, a being of self-made mind. This year’s recipient is a man of the mind.

In her introduction to The Romantic Manifesto, Ayn Rand makes reference, metaphorically, to bridges, identifying Aquinas as an example, as having bridged Aristotle and the Renaissance, and herself as a bridge between the esthetic and cultural heights of the nineteenth century and anyone today willing to take up the cause of pursuing the ideal, the good, the rational, the right, the world as it could be and should be.

We are deeply indebted to those long, high bridges that span the millennia and centuries, but there are critical bridges across the narrower gaps and chasms too, across the intervening decades and years, bridges that can be no less crucial for those attempting to make their way through a wilderness of irrationality. Our award tonight goes to a man who has provided a bridge between Ayn Rand and the generations following, including a generation of which I am one. The man is an exceptional teacher, a splendid original thinker and communicator in his own right, and moreover, a stellar example of what an ambitious intellectual who is not Ayn Rand can be, what he can accomplish and achieve over a lifetime, when he sets his mind to it. There’s no doubt in my mind that Ayn Rand would be as proud of her student today as she was the day she wrote, in her introduction to The Ominous Parallels, “It is so wonderful to see a great, new, crucial achievement which is not mine” — to which I will add, “It is so wonderful to have seen, in my lifetime, a man who has built, sculpted, and shaped his mind and character in such a way that he has been able to accomplish all he has, in the way he has.”

This evening, we recognize the man not only for what he’s done and continues to do, but for providing the vision of what a man of the mind could be, should be, and is. We salute him for what he’s made himself to be.

In recognition and appreciation, the recipient of the 2018 QCFA Self-Made American Award is Dr. Leonard Peikoff.

*****

Featured

And Again the Angels

And again they called to heaven
When around them rose a hell;
Again the angels came from earth
In answer to the bell.
While flesh and blood fought smoke and flame
And kept the black line manned,
The thanks went to the god by whose
Own breath the fires were fanned.

**********
“And Again the Angels” ~ Quent Cordair, My Kingdom, 2019

“Firefighter Rick Blakemore protects a structure along Highway 128, south of Pine Flat Road, northeast of Healdsburg, on Sunday, October 27, 2019.” (Christopher Chung/ The Press Democrat) 

Featured

Salute to Hongkongers

Friends, please feel free to share the above image widely, particularly with any and all who may have Hong Kong connections. May the photograph and the words help strengthen the resolve of those willing to stand for their freedom, for their lives, against the march of tyranny.

Award-winning photograph by P H Yang, used with permission.

#HongKong #Hongkonger #Freedom #Individualism #FreedomHK #rights #FreeHongKong
#NoChinaExtradition #hongkongprotests #StandWithHongKong

Castle Walls

FeaturedCastle Walls

 

Castle Walls

Peace, peace, but not a moment to be found,

No closet or armoire is free from the sound,

For now your enemies live here in your head—

Sitting at your table—

Waiting in your bed—

And who is to blame for their being inside?

What use, castle walls,

When the gate’s open wide?

~ Quent Cordair

***********
“Castle Walls” is from the My Kingdom collection of poems, short stories, & short plays for stage & screen, now available in paperback and Kindle editions.

 

My Kingdom ~ free Kindle copies for review

FeaturedMy Kingdom ~ free Kindle copies for review

My Kingdom for a review — literally! Today I’m giving away three Kindle-edition copies of My Kingdom in exchange for short reviews. Even just a sentence or two will do. Average reading time: four hours. Your mileage may vary.

Sample snippets of reader-reviews of My Kingdom posted so far, to whet your appetite:

“…a highly recommended soul-quencher.”

“…an homage to the mind of man.”

“…a mind-engaging symphony of deliverance … Quent Cordair presents a benevolent universe and a gallery of heroic individuals fighting for an ideal life. Ultimately, it is a love story. It is real and, if you reach for it, it can be yours.”

“There is a refreshing benevolence in all of Cordair’s work, not sugar-coated, that is captivating, profound…”

Be one of the first three to volunteer in the comments, with the understood commitment that you’ll do your best to post a review on Amazon within the next 14 days, and a copy is yours!

Thank you!

Preview all the posted reviews of My Kingdom, now in paperback and Kindle editions, on Amazon.

Quent Cordair’s My Kingdom is a select collection of poems, short stories, flash-fiction works, studies and musings from the author’s notebooks, short plays for stage and screen, special scenes from the Idolatry, and for the first time in print, the acclaimed short story “The Match,” together with the short screenplays “Mujahid” and “At Home with Heather James.”

“For me, an artist’s studio can be as fascinating a place to visit as the gallery or museum in which his finished work is displayed. Practice sketches, studies, exercises, works in progress, casual pieces created solely for the artist’s own pleasure—while perhaps never intended for sale or public exposure—can be as wondrous and interesting as finished works that have earned the artist’s signature. Over the years, I’ve been encouraged by fans to publish the writer’s equivalent of such studio work—written sketches, descriptions, dialogues, style and period exercises, scene and character studies, musings, selections from works in progress. This collection includes, in addition to an assortment of such, a variety of shorter, finished works, from poems to plays, dating to before publication of the Lunch Break collection. To one and all, welcome again to my world, my way. Welcome to My Kingdom.” ~ Quent Cordair

Featured

 

“He completes me”

—said the Sea of the Moon.

The Moon, he did reply:

“As she flows to my push,
As she ebbs to my pull,
May we dance ever thus,
Till the dawn rises full.
While the day may me hide
While she sails her ships wide,
She’ll yet move to my shift,
I’ll yet draw to her drift,
Drawing closer and down,
Till Time forces relent—
And into her wet gown
I plunge shimmering,
spent.”

 ~ Quent Cordair

 

******************

“He Completes Me” is from MY KINGDOM, Quent Cordair’s 5-STAR collection of poetry, short stories, and short plays for stage and screen. What readers are saying ~

“…a highly recommended soul-quencher.”

“…an homage to the mind of man.”

“…a mind-engaging symphony of deliverance, composed by a brilliant mind who has most definitely lived and loved. Quent Cordair presents a benevolent universe and a gallery of heroic individuals fighting for an ideal life. Ultimately, it is a love story. It is real and, if you reach for it, it can be yours.”

“There is a refreshing benevolence in all of Cordair’s work, not sugar-coated, that is captivating, profound…”

MY KINGDOM is now available in paperback and Kindle ebook (only $2.99) from Amazon @ https://www.amazon.com/dp/B07SVGNQG6

For this Father’s Day ~

FeaturedFor this Father’s Day ~

For this Father’s Day, a favorite passage from Genesis, Part I of Idolatry, the meeting of the sculptor Apollonius and the boy Myron ~

***********

… It was just so, late one evening. He had worked through the night and day prior on another mausoleum frieze, trying to reach a state of exhaustion and numbness that would overwhelm him enough that he could sleep. In the scene, the mourners surrounding the dead body were distraught; all were focused on the deceased except one figure – a man who had turned to look out at the viewer, searching for an unfindable answer. His face was sorrow incarnate.

Apollonius sat on the floor, his head fallen, his body bowed over and so tired that he could no longer lift his arms, and still his soul hurt too much to rest. The tears began to fall, making silent splashes in the marble dust on the floor, as the night’s last candle burned low.

He sniffed – and heard an echoing sniff, disembodied, not his own. He sniffed again. Another small sniffle answered. He opened his eyes to find a toddler sitting on the floor next to him, gazing up at the funereal scene, tears rolling down the urchin’s dust-caked cheeks. He was begrimed but beautiful, with auburn-bronze curls and hazel eyes flecked with umber and gold. The bedraggled cloth draping his little body was a dirty rectangle of coarse, undyed wool, a hole cut out for the head. Of the pins meant to hold the sides of the cloth together, one had torn loose, the other had ripped nearly away and was hanging by only a few threads.

Seeing Apollonius’s distraught face, the boy began crying all the harder. The two looked at each other and cried on, emptying the depths of their grief until Apollonius could no longer bear the pathos, such a pitiable outpouring from such a flawless creature who surely could know so little yet of pain, a mere child with the prospect of a lifetime of joys before him. The scene had become an absurd injustice, and from somewhere in Apollonius’s soul, from a place he had thought had long died, something rose through the thick sadness, bubbling upwards to escape –

He laughed.

It was an agonized laugh, a pained laugh, but a laugh nonetheless, and the boy, in turn, laughed at the sound of it. Apollonius put his arm around the boy and pulled him close. The two cried and laughed together until the candle flickered its last, until the forlorn faces on the frieze had vanished into the blanketing darkness, until sleep overcame the night….

******
To enjoy more of the Idolatry story ~ https://www.amazon.com/Genesis-Idolatry-Book-Q…/…/B00MUWOWDW

For this “Earth Day”

FeaturedFor this “Earth Day”

For this “Earth Day,” a passage from A New Eden, Part II of Idolatry. The year, 1852:

***
…When the day ended and darkness fell, Thomas walked away from the wagon train and into the wilderness, headed south with a vague notion of going to Mexico, with nothing on his person but the clothes on his back, the knife on his belt and, in his satchel, a flint, a small package of hardtack and dried beef, and his father’s edition of Lyell’s Principles of Geology.

Through the night and the next day he walked, seeing not a trace of humanity and scant signs of wildlife. The next evening he found himself standing atop a high hill overlooking a desolate valley.

Close to the west, a range of snow-tipped mountains rose like the ramparts of a citadel. At the valley’s south end lay a shallow marsh fed by snowmelt, mostly dried up from the long summer’s heat, miles of alkali flats left in the ebb. The mountain shadows were growing long across the valley floor. The desert heat was cooling rapidly as the sky began to shift into the loveliest, most vivid palette he had ever seen—a parasol of pastels over hills turning tangerine and deep saffron, the mountains tinted cornflower-blue and violet. He gathered enough deadfall and brush for a small fire and, after a light supper, nestled down beside a low wall of stone he built to hold the fire’s heat. After reading a chapter of Lyell by firelight, he slept, with moonlight for his blanket and a stone for his pillow.

He spent three days alone on the summit—reading, thinking, remembering his father, considering his future, weighing his options, taking in the view. On the fourth morning, the fire had gone cold in the night. The scant supply of brush and wood on the summit was exhausted, as was his meager store of food. But looking out over the valley, he judged it to be the most beautiful place he had ever seen. The assessment was, he knew, due in no small part to the fact that he, Thomas Thornton Hale, was the only person in the valley. He had never enjoyed the luxury of having even the smallest corner of earth he could call his own. He and his father had shared the bedroom of their two-room cabin. On the wagon trail, a person had to venture over a hill or around a stand of trees for any privacy from fellow travelers. He looked around him that morning, from the rocks at his feet to the far horizons, and he said—“My hill.” He said it to himself and to the land and to the sky—“My hill. My valley. My world.”

There was no one there to dispute his claim. And so it was so.

He wanted to memorialize the moment and the place, but there was nothing resembling a flag or stake to plant in the ground. He had burned all of the loose wood. Other than rocks and scattered scrub, the only thing of substance left nearby was a barely living, severely torqued tree—an ancient bristlecone pine, wide at its base, with stunted arms and spindly fingers reaching for the sky, a few clusters of needles still surviving in the branches, roots clinging tenaciously to the back side of the summit. Other than a narrow strip of bark running up one side, the twisted torso and limbs were all but denuded, the exposed wood blanched white and polished smooth and hard as stone by the elements. Thomas carved his initials and the date into the trunk with his knife.

Having left his mark, he wanted something of the place to take with him. Over the past days, he had noticed a long thin vein of reddish quartz, not more than a few inches wide, cutting diagonally across the summit like a scar, exposed between the upended layers of porphyritic strata. Scattered pieces of the quartz had broken off at the surface. He chose one the size of a dove’s egg and put it in his pocket.

He was ready to rejoin civilization. There were things he needed to do before he could return to the valley….

*****

Read more…

Featured

A Reaction to Beauty

The spirit of the angeli del fango ~

The Mud Angels

Confronted with something beautiful, an ache deep inside springs up and begs me to ask myself: “Have you done your part in making the world more beautiful? Have you repaid the universe for all the beauty and meaning it has offered you? Have you done enough? Can love alone settle your debts?”

The world has given me endless beautiful things. What have I done to deserve it? What can I do now to deserve it? I know logically that perhaps there’s nothing I should, or can, do. But when something causes such a wealth of emotions, it is hard to just sit there.

This can be seen in any emotion. Beg yourself not to cry when you’re truly sad, not to laugh when you’re truly joyous, not to yell when you’re truly angry. It is impossible. I feel the same when I experience true beauty. But there is no obvious…

View original post 429 more words

At Last

FeaturedAt Last

 

*****

It matters not which border crossed,
From desert dry or tempest tossed,
To waves of grain and freedom’s sigh, 
From womb’s dark hold to first-light’s cry—
You’re here, you’re here, at last.

It matters not what age you came,
Eight months or eighty years the same,
What color skin your parents’ face,
What faith from which they fled to grace—
You’re here, you’re here, at last.

Now eye to eye, measuring minds,
The hopeful search for justice finds
No honest man can blindly curse
One more like he in chorus and verse
Than different—yes, in essence we
Are species same, from nose to knee—
As equals born with equal right
To live and work and dream the night
Where best we may, and here you are,
Your place of birth be near or far,
Your life and loves as dear to you
As mine to me—and this is true:
As innocent till guilty proved,
Against you none are justly moved.

So come, let’s toast to freedom’s song,
And may someday you pass along—
It matters not which border crossed,
To nurse’s hands or shoreline lost—
You’re here, you’re here, at last.

~ Quent Cordair

*  *  *  * *
“At Last” is from the My Kingdom collection of poems, short fiction, and short plays for stage and screen, in paperback and Kindle edtions @ amazon.com/dp/B07SVGNQG6

For more of my published fiction ~ short stories, poetry, novels, stage and film scripts, available in ebook, paperback and audiobook ~ please visit my Amazon page. Thank you!

Check out my Q & A with The Fussy Librarian ~ ~  https://www.thefussylibrarian.com/newswire/for-readers/2018/06/22/author-qa-quent-cordair

Copyright 2018, Quent Cordair. All rights reserved.

My Kingdom

FeaturedMy Kingdom

My kingdom has no subjects,
No serfs, their backs to bear
The weight of lives of others;
None here are forced to share.

A kingdom filled with kings and queens,
Their castles great and small,
With princes blue, princesses true,
Good dogs to guard them all.

A kingdom built with brains and brawn,
Each year less brawn than brains;
We sow and reap, invent machines
That till the fertile plains.

We sail and dream, we wing the skies,
Beguile with arts refined;
We trade for riches far and near,
Hold forth in courts of mind.

We mine and dine, automatize
The tasks that bore to tears;
Our engineers, second to none,
Lean back and toast to cheers.

Our six policemen quite suffice;
We’ve seven hard Marines
And thirteen jets with bombs so smart
That no one intervenes.

We welcome independent souls,
No honest man we shun—
Our markets thrive on goods well made,
On services well done.

Be immigrant or passing guest,
As equals all we greet;
New buyers all, new sellers some,
New friends and loves to meet.

My kingdom has no subjects,
No serfs, their backs to bear
The weight of lives of others—
Come join us if you dare.

~ Quent Cordair

 

*  *  *  * *
For more of my published fiction ~ short stories, poetry, novels, stage and film scripts, available in ebook, paperback and audiobook ~ please visit my Amazon page. Thank you!

Check out The Fussy Librarian’s Q & A with me ~  https://www.thefussylibrarian.com/newswire/for-readers/2018/06/22/author-qa-quent-cordair

Copyright 2018, Quent Cordair. All rights reserved.

For this Mothers Day, an excerpt ~

FeaturedFor this Mothers Day, an excerpt ~

For this Mothers Day, I offer an excerpt from the current draft for IDOLATRY, Part III, The Fruit of the Tree (working title):

The lines had shuffled forward. Paige found herself standing next to the mother. The baby, bundled in her arms, had settled and calmed. He was so beautiful, so right, his blue eyes as clear and complete as little planets, encircled with rays of long blond lashes. His lips were ripe petals, formed for ready suckling. His ivory skin was of the most translucent, softest white marble imaginable, a glowing blush in the cheeks only the most accomplished painter might capture. Every little hillock and vale of his little body’s topography, every rise and fall, every curve and round—it was all mere suggestion of the man to come, all mere promise, and yet, here he was, already present, already real. And flawless. To mothers everywhere, in all times, all but the most unfortunate babies are perfection, but Paige simply couldn’t imagine any woman wanting anything more or less than what this woman held in arms—a complete little world in himself, needing and wanting nothing more, lacking nothing, being everything. There was nothing to add, nothing to subtract, nothing to change. This—this perfect little thing should be untouchable, undefilable, always and forever. How could anything on earth or in heaven be more perfect and whole, in and unto itself? If only it could remain so, if only he might never come to know a moment of sorrow, of pain, of evil, of disappointment. Paige wanted to draw a circle of protection around him, an impenetrable halo of sacredness, to suspend time.

She was blinking away a welling wetness in her eyes. An ache had come to her heart, her stomach: she herself would never have that. She would never have what this woman had. She had never really even wanted it until now, never wanted a child, but at this moment, she found herself wanting it more than anything in the world. How could any woman not?

She looked up to find the mother watching her. Her eyes understood. Woman to woman, the one knew the other’s ache, recognizing the depth of the longing in a woman-child who had lost her own mother, a daughter who wanted nothing more, in that moment, than to be a mother herself.

The mother glanced down at her child, and back up to Paige. Wordlessly, she asked the question.

Paige could only nod, blinking back tears, stunned at the kindness of the offering, a place inside her heart breaking open.

As she accepted the baby, her arms naturally, gently formed around him. It felt so right. She felt her entire body warm with joy. He was so small, so light. She gazed into the blue orbs, perfect worlds of their own, as they gazed back into hers. She marveled the beauty of the little face in all its wondrous glory. He was staring back into a face that was new to him, too, seemingly as fascinated with her as she with him. Her rocking sway, the gentle bounce, had started without her realizing or intending it. She began humming a melody. Her lullaby. Skye’s lullaby….

*****

Parts I & II of Idolatry are available in ebook, paperback and audiobook on Amazon….

Martin Eichinger’s Lullaby

available in limited-edition through

Quent Cordair Fine Art in Napa, CA

www.cordair.com

(707) 255-2242

The real meaning of Earth Day

FeaturedThe real meaning of Earth Day

For this Earth Day, a brief passage from Chapter 3 of A New Eden, Part II of Idolatry:

*****
The sun had risen high. The breeze was warm on their faces. Ian produced a bottle of chilled white wine and two glasses, removed the cork, and poured. He raised a toast.

“To another day in paradise.”

She touched her glass to his. They drank, the sunbeams reflecting off the wine and the glasses, dancing across their faces, splashing in their eyes. The wine was crisp, light and good.

“Paradise . . .” she mused aloud.

He had used the word without a trace of sarcasm or irony. The dry ruins beneath their feet, the surrounding hills, and the alkali flats were predominantly in chalky browns, yellows and whites. The sparse native vegetation was all of the scrubby, hardier varieties, evolved over the eons to survive the long droughts, blazing summers and freezing winters of the high desert. From the reservoir, her eye followed the river, the presumable source of all things green in the valley proper. There were bends in the river’s line, but other segments were unwaveringly straight – it wasn’t a natural river at all, but a manmade canal.

“Paradise – ” She smiled at the epiphany – “just add water.”

Ian had laid out an offering of cheese, olives, fruit, and finger sandwiches. “When the first explorers came through this way,” he said, pausing to sample a strawberry, “the valley was a desolate wasteland. There was hardly a reason to even note it on the maps. Most of the early settlers passed north of here, following the Humboldt River west. The few who detoured this far south saw little if anything to recommend the valley – they barely paused on their way to California.”

Paige watched his eyes. They were shaded by the brim of his cowboy hat, following the lay of the land with an easy acceptance and steady intent. His body was relaxed, at one with the place, as if he too had sprouted from the earth here, watered and grown by the river that was a canal. She followed his gaze, trying to imagine the unwelcoming, harsh emptiness that the valley must have been.

“But one man came,” he said, “and that man stood alone on the top of this hill, above where we are now. He envisioned a paradise in this place – and proceeded to make it so.”

There was solemnity in his voice. Paige set her glass quietly on the stone. “Do tell. . . .” she urged.

He glanced at her, studying her in the same steady way he studied the land. Adjusting his hat, he took a bite of an olive, followed it with a sip of wine, and looked out to the horizon and beyond.

“At the time, that man wasn’t even a man yet – ” he said, letting the story begin – “but a boy.”

***

Enjoy the acclaimed IDOLATRY series in paperback, audiobook, and ebook ~ https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B072HTC1FV

 

Plato’s children

FeaturedPlato’s children

ICE and the FDA are sister organizations, existing on the same plane, born of the same philosopher-king father and nanny-state mother. Both agencies were brought into existence on the same principle, to serve the same end: to stand between the individual and a class of things the individual might value, on grounds that only the government can properly judge whether the thing is good or harmful for the individual. Both agencies employ the same means. Through both organizations the government is to be the tester, the judge, the maker of standards, the sole decider as to the acceptability and appropriateness of the thing in question.

ICE stands between the individual and the immigrant, on behalf of the collective. The FDA stands between the individual and a drug or food, on behalf of the collective. The value to the individual of the thing in question can only be of secondary importance to the safety and welfare of the collective — and it is the collective that should decide what the individual may interact with and what he may not. The object in question is held as guilty until proven innocent, deemed unacceptable and illegal until tested, vetted, and shunted through the line of the government’s screens and the bureaucrats’ in-boxes, to be stamped as safe and acceptable, perhaps, but only as weighed against arbitrarily set governmental standards, and only after the arbitrarily established process has been exhausted. If individuals suffer or die in the meantime, this is of secondary concern to the safety and “good” of the collective.

This is preventative regulation, and it stands in stark contrast to rights-protective law. Preventative regulation violates the individual’s right to use his own mind as the sole judge of what is good for him and what is not. Proper rights-protective law goes after rights violators and rights violators only – and strictly contingent on objective evidence. Where there is objective evidence that a country, organization, or individual has violated the citizen’s individual rights or is threatening to violate the citizen’s rights, it is the proper role of government to act on the individual’s behalf against the threat.

Properly, government does not deem a medicine as dangerous until proven safe. It does not deem a surgeon born in India as dangerous until proven safe. It does not deem a field worker born in Mexico as dangerous until proven safe. It does not deem a friend, a lover, a fiancée, a spouse, an au pair, a student, an employee, or a potential business partner born elsewhere as dangerous until proven safe. It does not come between the individual and the product or person the individual has decided, by his own judgment, to value and to interact with. It does not use force to violate the individual’s own reason, his own judgment, his own choice as to what or who is good for him and what or who is not. It does not deem a potential cure for influenza or cancer or canker sores as dangerous until proven safe. It does not regulate opioids or ophthalmologists or Omanis.

“The only proper purpose of a government is to protect man’s rights, which means: to protect him from physical violence. A proper government is only a policeman, acting as an agent of man’s self-defense, and, as such, may resort to force only against those who start the use of force. The only proper functions of a government are: the police, to protect you from criminals; the army, to protect you from foreign invaders; and the courts, to protect your property and contracts from breach or fraud by others, to settle disputes by rational rules, according to objective law. But a government that initiates the employment of force against men who had forced no one, the employment of armed compulsion against disarmed victims, is a nightmare infernal machine designed to annihilate morality: such a government reverses its only moral purpose and switches from the role of protector to the role of man’s deadliest enemy, from the role of policeman to the role of a criminal vested with the right to the wielding of violence against victims deprived of the right of self-defense. Such a government substitutes for morality the following rule of social conduct: you may do whatever you please to your neighbor, provided your gang is bigger than his.” ~ Galt’s speech, Atlas Shrugged, Ayn Rand

Featured

2018 Cordair Arts and Wine Weekend

July 6 & 7, 2018

Quent Cordair Fine Art

1301 First Street, Napa, California

Join us FRIDAY JULY 6th & SATURDAY JULY 7th for a weekend of art, wine, music, drama, art history, music theory and more! 

Curtain with text

Reserve your seat for only $25 total cost. Call the gallery today. 707-255-2242

~ PROGRAM SUBJECT TO CHANGE ~

FRIDAY EVENING, 6 p.m. to 9 p.m. 

Art, Wine & Music Reception

A reception in the gallery, with excellent wine, splendid art, and live music on the grand piano by a platinum-award winning composer. 

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We are pleased and honored to announce that platinum-award winning composer/music producer Mars Lasar will be joining us at the grand piano Friday evening.

Mars Lasar

Born in Germany, raised in Australia, Mars Lasar is a prolific keyboardist and composer. Mars started playing piano at 11 years old, and over a few years of extensive classical and jazz training, he rapidly became drawn to all kinds of music. At 14, Mars began composing, recording and publishing his own music professionally.

 

 

The lovely and talented Tori Anna Sophia, Napa Valley singer/songwriter, American Idol contestant, is scheduled to join us to share a sampling from her Doris Day repertoire.  Tori Anna was the top female finisher in Michael Feinstein’s Great American Songbook Highschool Vocal competition in 2012.

 

Our friends from Capp Heritage Vineyards will be offering complimentary tastings Friday evening for our guests.  ~

 

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SATURDAY 10:00-11:30 a.m.

Turn-of-the-Century Artist-Entrepreneurs: Saint Gaudens, MacMonnies, Parrish

Dianne Durante

Dianne Durante, PhD

“In the late 19th and early 20th century, the most capitalistic era in American history, it was considered normal that the immense popularity of Augustus Saint Gaudens, Frederick MacMonnies and Maxfield Parrish should earn them substantial wealth. MacMonnies’ annual income in the mid-1890s reputedly reached $300,000 (about $7.5 million today). In 1925, one of every four American homes had a print of Maxfield Parrish’s Daybreak.

“This lecture gives a brief overview of the life and notable works of Saint Gaudens, MacMonnies and Parrish, within the historical, political, economic and philosophical framework of the period between the Civil War and World War I. If you enjoy hearing about intelligent, hard-working, innovative, highly skilled and profit-minded men making piles of money by creating beautiful works of art, then this lecture is for you.”

Dianne Durante, PhD in Classical Philology, is an art historian, independent researcher, freelance writer, lecturer, and tour guide.

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SATURDAY 1:00-2:30 p.m.

Music and the American Left ~ A Study in Subterfuge

Stephen Siek

Stephen Siek

“In 1943, Ayn Rand exposed the intensity with which the American Left sought to inject socialist propaganda into literature and film by observing, ‘In the last ten years, the Reds have done a good job of building up literary celebrities for their own purposes. … These celebrities then appear on Red committees, endorse Red causes, build up other Red names, and the racket works as the radicals’ best propaganda method. … Look how savagely they have defended the art field from all intrusions of conservatives.  They know its value.’ But literature was not the only fine art which American leftists (supported spiritually, and often financially, by the Soviet Union) conspired to dominate, and the full story of how socialists worked from behind the scenes throughout the twentieth century to transform American classical music into an instrument of communist propaganda has never been told. In this presentation, the covert methods employed by statists to control this country’s concert artists, symphonies, opera, and even ballet companies will be explored with reference to specific case studies. Images and recorded excerpts will also be used to help illustrate the power of the philosophic ideas that govern the marketing of art—and their inevitable political consequences.”

Stephen Siek is a pianist, musicologist, and piano historian; former professor of music at Wittenberg University; author of England’s Piano Sage: The Life and Teachings of Tobias Matthay and A Dictionary for the Modern Pianist.

 

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SATURDAY 3:00-4:30 p.m.

An Introduction and Discussion: What Music Is and Does

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David Berry

David Berry

Based on the speaker’s monograph, which includes essays inspired by Objectivism on music. A brief overview of a theory of music esthetics, with time for interaction with the audience on issues of interest.

David Berry is the Professor of Music History, Theory and Composition at the School of the Arts/Petrie School of Music, Converse College

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SATURDAY 7 p.m.

Wine Tasting & Education with winemaker Chris Daniel 

Learn the nuances of wine tasting with a winemaker who makes Viognier, Rose of Cabernet Sauvignon, Syrah, Malbec, Cabernet Sauvignon, and Petit Syrah.

Smell, swirl, taste, and ask questions.

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SATURDAY 7:45 p.m.

“An Uncomfortable Silence”

A short play written by Quent Cordair, performed by Hunter Schaufel & Elizabeth Brazil. 

Elizabeth Brazil

Elizabeth Brazil is an 18 year old singer, songwriter, and actress from Vacaville, California. She has been in over 15 productions at her Alma mater, Justin-Siena High school. Her favorite roll was Miss Adelaide in her senior year production of Guys and Dolls. She plans on pursuing her Broadway dreams in the fall and will be attending Marymount Manhattan College in the heart of New York City, New York.

 

Hunter Schaufel

Hunter Schaufel is a dedicated actor and recent graduate of Justin-Siena High School, where he studied and performed under the direction of James Thomas Bailey and vocal director Vivian McLaughlin. He has benefited, additionally, from five years of vocal instruction under Connie Lisec and foundational instruction in dance under choreographer and teacher Lisa Clark Schmeling. He recently received top marks in his acting exam administered by the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art. Hunter looks forward to pursuing a career in product design and engineering, and is excited to begin classes as an undergraduate in the Georgia Institute of Technology’s mechanical engineering program in the fall.

 

SATURDAY 8:00 p.m.

A Program of Russian, German & American music

Stephen Siek, piano

Thomas Shoebotham, cello

David Berry, Composer & Commentator

Thomas Shoebotham

American conductor and cellist Thomas Shoebotham performs the Bach Suite for Solo Cello #1. Equally at home on the concert stage and in the opera and ballet pit,  Thomas Shoebotham conducts frequently with professional, community, and youth ensembles, collaborating with notable singers, dancers, and instrumentalists to bring “rousing, colorful” presentations to a variety of audiences.

 

 

Stephen Siek performs works for piano by Borodin, Scriabin, Reinagle, and a reprise of David Berry’s “Cordair Gallery” Suite, inspired by art in the gallery, first performed on the 2008 QCFA Arts Cruise.

 

Cordair Gallery: Suite for Piano by S. David Berry

Touching the Surface (Tom Seirak)
Henry’s Night Out (Quent Cordair)
Prometheus (Danielle Anjou)
Young Builder (Bryan Larsen)
Gaia’s Breath (Martin Eichinger)
The Anchorage (Bryan Larsen)

***

SUNDAY 10 a.m.
Mimosas, coffee, delectable treats, and of course art!

***

~ PROGRAM SUBJECT TO CHANGE ~

Napa Lodging: A special discount has been arranged at the beautiful new Archer Hotel located across the street from the gallery.  Find availability and rates at https://archerhotel.com/napa/book/quent-cordair-fine-art

Additional lodging can be found that weekend starting at approximately $160 per night (at the time of this post) at other area hotels and bed and breakfasts. Groups of friends might consider an AirBnB home rental.

Attendees will receive goodie bags filled with local coupons, dining information, and sightseeing options.

Let us know if you would like to explore Napa while you are here and we can connect you with delicious wine-tasting opportunities at some of our favorite places.

Check back for additional program updates, lodging, dining and sightseeing suggestions.

For more information call Linda Cordair at 707-255-2242 or visit our event Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/events/172009640082042/.

Visit www.cordair.com to explore our award-winning art gallery.

“Fake news”

Featured“Fake news”

About “fake” news: Never surrender the concepts of true and false. Words are important. How we use words is important. When someone mounts a campaign to conflate false with fake, his goal is to conflate true with real. When you surrender false for fake, you surrender true for real, and when you’ve surrendered true and false—when you’ve accepted real versus fake as the standard—he has you where he wants you, for then he needs only your acceptance of what he asserts as real, with asserted reality having become more important than truth, with accepted reality becoming what is asserted.

Never surrender true and false, if you value being able to identify what’s truly real, if you don’t want to fall for the false reality of a fake.

We allow conceptual lines to be blurred, to be erased, to be forgotten, at our peril. Beware the conceptual sleight of hand, the misdirection — the con artist’s tool. When someone assiduously avoids using the terms ‘true’ and ‘false’, and dislikes one of them so much that he works to replace it with a different term at every opportunity, ask yourself why that might be.

Also relevant: Identifying a second-hander ~ https://www.facebook.com/quent.cordair/posts/1409578702498677

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My novels, short stories, poetry, and plays are available on Amazon…. Thanks so much for reading and for all your comments and reviews ~

Enabling

FeaturedEnabling

You probably know what an enabler is. The term is all too familiar to those who have been in therapy or counseling for their role in a co-dependent relationship, for their role in enabling the destructive behavior of an addictive and/or abusive loved one.

An enabler forgives, excuses, evades, rationalizes, being too fearful of what might be lost, too dependent on the relationship with the abuser to hold him fully and adequately accountable and responsible for his destructive actions. And so the enabler continues to support the abuser in a seemingly inescapable cycle, enabling the cycle of abuse, excuse, apology, the improved behavior until the worse behavior comes around again. The co-dependency and enabling is unfortunately common in relationships with abusive children, spouses, significant others, friends, parents.

Some exhibit a similar psychology in relation to what they believe to be their “heavenly father,” a parental figure praised and worshipped for whatever occasional joy, security, and affection he might provide – while whatever grief, loss, sickness and horror he causes or allows is suffered and endured. Any positive is praised and treasured, while all negatives are forgiven, overlooked, excused, rationalized away. Someone who is psychologically and emotionally dependent on such a parental figure believes he cannot afford to make the parent angry, cannot afford to reject the parent, must defend the parent, feeling utterly dependent on the parent for love and life, no matter how abusive or neglectful, no matter how deaf to the child’s cries the parent may be. In such a relationship, one endures all, justifies all, for the sake of the occasional demonstration of what is interpreted as love and affection, for the occasional “good day” between all the bad, for the parent’s protection, for the parental security. But it is a relationship of utter dependency.

The same psychology and behavior is exhibited by many towards a religious leader, an employer, a führer, a king – a president. The only full and lasting cure is independence: intellectual independence, physical independence, psychological independence, emotional independence. Until independence is fully achieved, the bruising will continue, the enabler finding it necessary to keep the makeup and excuses handy while hoping to keep the abuser sufficiently mollified and distracted, hoping that the bad never becomes worse, while the abuser never lets the enabler quite forget, by how he treats or threatens to treat others, how much worse it could be.

***

My novels, short stories, poetry, and plays are available on Amazon…. Thanks for reading, and for your comments and reviews ~

New year, same resolve, same banner

FeaturedNew year, same resolve, same banner
New year, same resolve, same banner.
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A Call to Stand
 
One man at war with Man’s deprecation
Calls out to all men to seek no salvation,
To pick themselves up from self-immolation,
To turn from the gods of their own creation,
To stand up and face the day —
To reclaim their birthright to say —
I am that I am, before nothing I kneel;
I mastered the fire, invented the wheel;
I cast the bells true and set them to peal;
I am Man, for whom all else is clay —
I am Man. I make my own way.
***
My fiction is here.
My paintings are here.
My art gallery is here.

And Again the Angels

FeaturedAnd Again the Angels

Again they called to heaven
When around them rose a hell;
Again the angels came from earth
In answer to the bell.
While flesh and blood fought smoke and flame
And kept the black line manned,
Their thanks went to the god by whose
Own breath the fires were fanned.

 

***

The original “Again the Angels” is here …

For more of my published fiction — shorts, poetry, novels & scripts, available in ebook, paperback and audiobook — please visit my Amazon page.

Individualism

FeaturedIndividualism

A good blog post by the Hyacinth Girl, in which I’m quoted. It opens,

“Scrolling through my Twitter feed the other day, I came across this picture posted by the History in Pictures account. It’s a box of wedding rings found by liberators at a concentration camp in 1945. Each ring belonged to a person, and each person disappeared into the camps….”

http://www.thehyacinthgrrrl.com/2017/12/individualism.html

 

None more wondrous or impressive . . .

FeaturedNone more wondrous or impressive . . .

Never has there been a god or goddess more wondrous or impressive than the wondrous and impressive beings after whom they were modeled. Man is quite incapable, thank goodness, of inventing an entity more remarkable or exalted than himself. The gods are nothing more, nothing less, than creations molded from Man’s own characteristics, his own virtues and vices, his own qualities reconfigured and remodeled in effort to answer his own hopes, longings, fears, and uncertainties. The gods are, at best, reflections of Man’s own essence, distillations of his own actuality, glorifications of his own potential. At the end of the creative day, however, though he may fervently wish or believe otherwise, no creation of Man can be Man’s master. Though the creator may bow and worship the creation, the creation is not, and could never be, the creator’s superior. The creation can be nothing more than the creator’s servant, a means to his end. If the creator chooses to kneel before his creation, he is free to do so, but he cannot blame the creation for staring back at him in mute wonder.

~ Quent Cordair, on Idolatry

The Idolatry story opens in the twilight of the Roman Empire. As the darkening forces of mysticism descend on Western Civilization, the daughter of itinerant traders is falling fast for a local boy—the apprentice and adopted son of a sculptor. The old master, concerned for the boy’s future, recalls his years as a younger man in bustling Alexandria, where he had found the love of his life before having to flee the threat of religious persecution. Now, having finally rebuilt his life and career in a village far away, an enemy from the past reappears, threatening all he holds dear….

Parts I & II of Idolatry, *Genesis* and *A New Eden*, are now available in ebook, paperback, and audiobook editions on Amazon. Part III is being written.

 

The Dark Deeds of Night

FeaturedThe Dark Deeds of Night

The rain has come. The rain stopped before. It may stop again. It may not. Until the glooming wetness passes, it will weigh upon me like sackcloth as I wait here at the portal for the return of the bright and warming god. For what else can one do but show a constant and enduring faith? If a small rodent appears, I will sacrifice it so that the sun will reappear more quickly. The sun is pleased by offerings of dead rodents, a truth my ancestors have known and passed down through the ages. Until a worthy sacrifice appears, the emptiness in my soul may be assuaged now and again with communion from the human-priest’s hand, morsels of sustaining manna for which I will cry out when he passes, shuffling by, he and his pale assurances of sunny morrows and an endless cycle of seasons. But what can he and his kind know of the sacrifices required of me and my kind to keep it all turning, of the taking of life necessary for life’s return? Dutifully, quietly, I will do again what my kind have always done, knowing that the human-priests will raise their faces to the sun when the sun comes again, giving no thought or thanks to those willing to do the dark deeds of night that make the day possible. Yes, the sun will come again. Of this I will make sure. ~ Le Chat

Alive

FeaturedAlive

At our local bar, sitting next to two 70-somethings who’ve met here by happenstance. He was here when we came in, wears a medical bracelet. The seat next to him is the only seat available to her. And so she sits. He’s having a glass of wine. She orders a beer. It would be rude not to introduce themselves. They ask the questions, get to know each other. Only bits and pieces of the conversation can be heard, but the emotional undertones are timeless. He used to be in a band? What instrument? Saxophone? Her husband used to play! He taught her, but she was never very good…. Heart rates rise as hopes rise. The cautious, cautious optimism. By the time he leaves, she’s revealed where and when he might run into her again. When he walks out the door, his back is a little straighter, head a little higher. She takes her time, finishes her beer.

***

Thank you!

FeaturedThank you!

Thanks so much for each and every review! “A screenplay jihadists will hate and civilized people will love…. Set in Chicago during the holiday season, the story involves a conflict between Husam, a young Muslim man who takes Islam seriously, and his younger brother Jasim. The conflict escalates after Husam is handed a heavy bag by a bearded man and gets on a bus heading downtown…. How is the conflict resolved? In an immensely satisfying way—as fans of Cordair’s work would expect.” — Daniel Wahl, The Objective Standard.  https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00R8QP8NI

No Sea Was Ever Sailed

No Sea Was Ever Sailed


cordair.com/artists/cordai

No Sea Was Ever Sailed

No sea was ever sailed
By fear of drowning in the deep.
No bridge was ever built
By huddled souls in castle’s keep.
No cloud slipped ‘neath the wing
Of one who dared not leave the ground.
No daunting height was scaled
Without a test of holds unsound.

No barn was ever raised
By hands that wouldn’t plant in spring.
No city skyline drawn
By those whose vision wouldn’t sing.
No rocket ship was launched
Without a dream to touch the stars.
No man stood on the Moon
Who didn’t long to land on Mars.

No writer wrote a wonder
Without braving the first line.
No sculptor carved a marvel
But for craving sight divine.
No dancers spun a ballroom
Before graceless learning turns.
No masterwork was painted
By a critic’s clucks and burns.

No cure was finally bottled
Without trials that failed to save.
No bulb illumed the night
Of those who never left the cave.
No gear turned fine and smoothly
Till the first rough models broke.
No wheel turned light and quickly
Till a rebel carved a spoke.

No friendship grew and strengthened
Without hearts opened to hurt.
No neighbor’s warmth was nurtured
With responses cold and curt.
No lovers’ cove was treasured
More than after storms astern.
No passion’s flame rekindled
But for bringing fuel to burn.

No man was free a master
Till his mind was unenslaved.
No people shed a tyrant
Till they faced him unafraid.
No peace was long in lasting
When unanswered went the call.
No justice served for any
When no one would stand for all.

No life is fully lived
In pallid dread of pending death.
No fear is faced and conquered
Till accepted with deep breath.
No step into this world
Is ever taken until willed.
When last your eyes have closed
May they’ve seen a life fulfilled.

~ Quent Cordair

Purchase one or more signed prints of “No Sea Was Ever Sailed” at
https://cordair.com/artists/cordair/works/no-sea-was-ever-sailed/index.html
*****

Enjoy more of my poetry & short fiction in my latest collection, My Kingdom, now available in paperback and Kindle editions. ~

I could not put the book down! I read the poems out loud to my kids as though I am Cyrano on stage! Inspires me to be the best I can be! Love it! ~ Heather Pendaris

If you enjoy life and a positive view of mankind, if you are a valuer and enjoy reading uplifting works, you’ll love this collection of short works by Quent Cordair. This is a great book when you just want a short read that will leave you feeling better than when you started, when you need a little emotional fuel. No need to read it as a whole, just enjoy a little morsel when you need it. You will find yourself going back for more, over and over. I have thoroughly enjoyed Quent’s longer works, but they are a deeper dive. This collection can be enjoyed even if you have only short spurts of time available for reading. I highly recommend it. ~ Steve M.

I can only say, if like me you admire human independence and have a belief that each of us are sovereign individuals and that the greatest joy can be found in seeing something admirable, reward yourself with a few hours of pleasure. Buy the real book .. read … enjoy. ~ Garrett Seinen

The My Kingdom collection is now available in paperback and Kindle editions. ~

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*****

If you prefer novels, I write those too. I recommend starting with Genesis, the first part of my five-part Idolatry saga. ~

Genesis

Part I of Idolatry

In the twilight of the Roman Empire, a sculptor struggles to keep an 800-year dream alive while honoring the love of his life and raising his adopted son. Part I of the epic five-part Idolatry saga, the story of a wealthy young heir and a devout Christian girl who find themselves at the heart of a 2400-year struggle for the soul of Western Civilization.

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“Beautifully written, on the order of Ken Follett’s Pillars of the Earth, with the historical insight of James Michener, it brings to life a time of great thought, great art, and its clash with religious fanaticism. Cordair writes with a poet’s sense of scene and nuance and gives us a great deal of insight into the mind of a sculptor; I found this an exciting and easy read.” ~ Alan Nitikman

Enjoy Genesis in paperbackKindle, or Audiobook today. ~

*****

Quent Cordair Fine Artlocated in beautiful Napa, California, was established by artist Quent Cordair in 1996. As a premier provider of contemporary Romantic Realism in painting, sculpture, and drawing, QCFA has grown to serve an international clientele of private and corporate collectors. Explore our select offerings today at cordair.com. ~