Winter Fragments

I met a man wearing a crucifix. "It's for protection." he said, "against evil spirits." I wondered, so I asked him how that worked. "Oh, it's nothing so mysterious, really, -- but, then again, maybe it is," he winked. "It simply reminds me of what I know in my heart. To be kind. To listen, to care, and to help where I can."

A mystic is ultimately a realist, - the ultimate realist, in fact; someone who loves all things; someone to whom nothing is preferable to whatever is, at any given moment.

Religion is what happens when philosophy falls in love.

Genius is often treated as though it were a higher octave of talent, when, in fact, it is entirely possible to be richly possessed of genius while being destitute of talent. Such a condition would be madness, or would appear to be madness, for talent is the means by which genius finds expression, and a genius which cannot express itself must keep silent, or else be interpreted as madness. Genius is the message, but talent is the medium. Talent is therefor indispensable to genius, if genius is to express itself in a congenial way. Moreover, the extent to which an individual is gifted with genius will determine the extent to which he must be gifted with talent, if his daemon is to find a medium equal to its message. Intelligence, too, even at the highest levels, is incapable of adequately communicating the insights of genius. Without talent, intelligence is altogether too analytical and mechanistic to capture the tail of this dragon. Likewise, without the clear-sightedness of intelligence, talent (which is the sum of intuition, just as intelligence is the sum of thought) is too personal and obscure to convey the universal nature of genius. There is something unworldy about genius, which requires both the clarity of intelligence and the magic of talent to express, or to manifest, itself in a way which the world can fully recognize and appreciate. Only where talent and intelligence intersect can genius find an opportunity to cut through. No matter how incredible his gift may be, a genius must also possess both of these, intelligence and talent, each fitted to his stature like skates upon his feet, if he is to trace the most elegant figures on the ice.

I once knew a man of profound genius, but, would you believe, his intelligence was thick and slow, and his talent could never be counted upon. He was like a madman, mouthing strange words no one could understand. Don't ask me how I knew he was a genius, in spite of his estate, for I cannot clearly say it, though I believe it to this date. It was evident, perhaps, in the briefest things he'd say, for whenever he attempted to say more, he ended by saying too much, and the effect was altogether lost, like a swordsman who spins, and spins, and never thrusts.

I think our souls probably incarnated on Earth for essentially the same reason that American soldiers enlisted to go to Iraq. We thought it was a good idea.

Shakespeare couldn't write symphonies.

Nietzsche was right in calling Christianity a condemnation of the world. His accusation that this condemnation amounted to slander, however, depended upon his conviction that no other worlds are possible, and that faith in the beyond is a siren song to which the weakest, most avoidant characters are susceptible. In actual fact, Nietzsche's own philosophy is full of rousing tributes to the spirit of exploration and the forward-looking overman. Forward, but not beyond, he would perhaps say. Still, I think there is no significant difference. Whether to transcend ourselves or to transcend the world, we are speaking of the will to pass through and pass on. The believer has, perhaps, something more of the adventurer and the gambler in his blood, for he is courageous enough to take what appears to be an outrageous leap of faith, in the hope of attaining his ideal in a single bound. Nietzsche's dependence on will was purely a lack of faith. This is the fundamental problem of existentialism. Man assumes the burden to actualize his life, because he lacks the eyes to see what God has already accomplished in the world. Really, the world ended with Christ on the cross. The culmination of history, and death itself, is not a defeat, not a surrender, but a victory. Nonetheless, it is one thing to win, and quite another thing to know when you have won; and when to put away your sword.


We're not living in the end times. Not any more.


I take courage that I may not be entirely without merit or use, so long as noble sentiments still fall, like freely scattered seed, upon the soil of my breast; though their roots do not (yet) extend into my legs, and their fruits do not emerge from out my wrists.