'Mortal as I am, I know that I am born for a day. But when I follow at my pleasure the serried multitude of the stars in their circular course, my feet no longer touch the earth.'
 
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 Man's final solace.

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PostSubject: Man's final solace.   Sat Aug 04, 2012 8:39 am

From my latest writing project:








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Above all else, man endeavors that he might at last know life, not that he might love it, and thereby abdicating that stolid post for his soul's salvation, bore in futile solitude, he avers himself this garb of flesh in the name of neither pleasure or spite, and lives neither for the sake of happiness nor for the sake of conquering pain, for he recalls that suffering of old Job, which could be assuaged neither with the promise of heaven's riches nor with anger, with neither hope, pity, or with the unseen movements of some inhuman justice, but only with awe. Indeed, it is the awe of life which is man's final comfort, not pleasure, with its vague intuitions of the earth's great bounty, nor even love, in its definite grasp, in its confidence and pious severity, nor does this last comfort lie in the mind, regardless of what the saints and philosophers might tell us- the mind, in all its vast epicycles and supernal brilliance, which is only the glint of that star which, upon the mirrored face of the sea into which it leads us, appears then so meager, and but a weary, dwindling beacon. The stillness of the uncreated, the womb of all that is yet to be and live, or truth eternal in its placidity, unmoved by the avarice of death and nature- that music of the spheres, which choirs with the wisdom of the dead and with the dreams of the forgotten, are perhaps the hopeful banners under which the unborn and the departed might bear their fate, but it is just that the living, who alone have the need of it, are alone provided the most perfect solace, namely awe, or wonder, as the Greeks so named it. Life is a dying flame, that needs must feed itself with the living earth.

 

___________
A sik þau trûðu


Nisus ait, "Dine hunc ardorem mentibus addunt,
Euryale, an sua cuique deus fit dira cupido?"

Have the gods set this ruling passion in my heart,
or does each man's furious passion become his god?
- Virgil.


It is not opium which makes me work but its absence, and in order for me to feel its absence it must
from time to time be present.-- Antonin Artaud
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