I recently found myself in one of those "cool" shops which showcase the irreverent work of local artists, and was not impressed. In fact, I found myself thoroughly depressed by the experience. Nevertheless, I've come away with some reflections which I hope may be of some use.
First, let me provide a couple examples of the "art" which so disturbed me, and then attempt to interpret it so as to explain my reaction:
No doubt, you are familiar with those tall, cylindrical candles encased in glass and decorated with a depiction of one of the saints, or of the mother of God, or some other religious symbol. Well, a certain artist thought it would be clever to reproduce those candles and depictions, but in an ironic style. There were many variations, but, to give just one instance, there was a reverent-looking man, complete with beard and upturned eyes, holding a bong, and the caption read "So-and-So [I forget the name], The Patron Saint of Lost Brain Cells". I say that the artist thought this clever, and I must admit, it was clever. It even elicited a fleeting, ironic smile on my part. But the smile was quickly replaced by a strange sense of melancholy and even pity for the artist and for anyone who might be so delighted by the object as to purchase it and place it in their home. What disturbed me is that the object, though clever, was nothing more than clever, and while it awakened in me reflections of a higher nature, I could not help suspecting that the creator of the work, and almost certainly the admirers of the work, were not likely to be privy to its deeper ramifications; or, if they were, that these would somehow remain in the background, acting only to highlight the clever irony in the foreground, and to provide a chuckle, when they really ought to make us weep.
The second example is of an altar, rather elaborately decorated, and placed in the back corner of the shop. It was, as it were, an altar dedicated to nostalgia for an 80's childhood, and the direct subject was "Mr. T". There was an action figure, a lunch-box, and many other sorts of "Mr. T" paraphernalia. Again, it was clever. It was ironic. It was kitch. And it turned my stomach.
I know many people will think I am simply taking these things too seriously, and that I just need to lighten up and have a little fun. That's understandable. However, my objection is that this is precisely indicative of the moral, or spiritual, disease which has taken hold of our culture: We are afraid to take anything seriously. Any expression of true sincerity, in our culture, is regarded as highly suspect. Almost invariably, there is an immediate inclination to crack a joke, and to make light of whatever serious and sincere consideration happens to be tempting us into a deeper reflectiveness. The overwhelming message one seems to get, subtly or implicitly, is that "Life is a joke, and so is God, and so are you."
In fact, it is this very flippancy which makes the joke work, and though it may be healthful to laugh, it is a sure sign of disease when that laughter does not give way to a deeper period of reflection, in which one attempts to transform the situation into one which is not a joke. That we do not enter into a deeper consideration of the matter is symptomatic of the dire progression of the disease, for it shows that we are desperate indeed. We are like the madman who sees his madness and, yet, incapable of seeing any way out of it, is reduced to absolute hysterics. He cannot be reasoned with, but remains lost; trapped in a sort of self-referencing, self-satirizing condition. In essence, he feeds upon his own madness, -- or, more precisely, his madness feeds upon itself.
If we wished to be especially generous, we might interpret this condition as a last-ditch attempt to empower the self, which feels utterly disempowered, by reclaiming those aspects of experience which have been systematically co-opted by the culture. In other words, it is not unlike the situation of many members of the black community who have attempted to empower themselves by reclaiming the word "nigger", so as to remove the stigma of the word through a process of desensitization, making it instead a term of affection (i.e. "my nigger"). What we find is that the long history of it's use cannot be so easily dispelled. In consequence, the less controversial term "nigga" has taken its place, while the word "nigger" retains its original, derogatory connotations, and is perhaps more potent, and more taboo, than ever. Now we can only refer to it in polite society as "the N-word". So, in our present attempt to de-claw the beasts which threaten us, by making a joke of them, we have fallen into the very trap we wished to escape. What began as an underground movement, designed to satirize the mainstream consumerist culture, or the advertising machine which has co-opted every true expression of human experience and turned it into a marketing gimmick, ends by becoming that which it despised. Now, there is nothing more mainstream, nothing which has been so thoroughly co-opted, as this defiant, ironic distantiation which began as a defensive posture for those wishing to resist and distance themselves from the mainstream.
What the pieces discussed above really suggest to me is the utter spiritual poverty of our modern age, and the fact that many people, though clearly desperate for true, sincere tokens of spirituality, are not comfortable placing actual images of saints in their homes, -- but, still wishing somehow to access that strata, are settling for these pseudo-saints whose behavior benignly reflects their own, while only vaguely suggesting the discrepancy between their "lost brain cells" and the illuminated mind of those devoted to a higher path.
Now, the corporate juggernauts themselves are onto us, and have adopted our irony to suit their nefarious purposes. Like us, they are self-mocking, self-reflective, self-satirizing. Rather than make inflated claims which they know we are all too jaded to be moved by, they advertize like they don't care: "Insert Logo Here", or "Insert Clever Catch-Phrase Here", or "It's Just A Potato Chip", or "It's Just A Sneaker; It Won't Make You Capable Of Slam-Dunking Like Michael Jordan; But, Hey, Buy It Anyway" and so on. But it's just another marketing ploy. And we, in our self-referencing, culture-referencing attempts to take back the power, are merely succeeding in highlighting the dimensions of those cells in which we remain captive, along with our own hysterical hopelessness.
So what is the solution? How do we get free?
It's simple. We need to get real. We need to get serious, and reclaim sincerity from the cultural scrap-heap. But, more than this, we need to get serious about things which the culture cannot market to us. If you see a bumper-sticker advertising a message of anti-consumerism -- don't consume it, Stupid! And if you see a bumper-sticker advertising a message of anti-consumerism in an ironic, self-referencing fashion (i.e. "I Consumed This Anti-Consumerist Bumper-Sticker") -- definitely do not buy it.
All it does is play upon your sense of defeat. It's a hysterical madman, laughing at his own madness, and digging himself deeper and deeper into a hole with every clever, self-referencing, self-satirizing "joke". Isn't this, after all, the only thing truly ironic about it?
Get free. Get honest. Get serious. Get real. And don't be afraid to love God, or to make of Jesus Christ something more than a party gag; a "Buddy Christ". If you're a hypocrite, who hits the bong while harboring an ideal of perfect sobriety, then, dammit, be a hypocrite; have the courage to be a hypocrite; and don't attempt to make a joke of your hypocrisy by ironically lighting ironic candles to an ironic icon of an ironic patron saint.
No doubt, the instant you sincerely aim for the sublime, somebody somewhere will accuse you of being pretentious. No doubt they think having low aims makes them humble. But that's not true humility, and if you are going to err, then err on the side of the sublime. Don't be afraid to be pretentious; have the courage of your pretensions.
Don't attempt to ease your situation by making a joke of yourself, and calling it "having a sense of humor", or "being humble". There are better things to be than a clown, and there is still hope that you can be more than a clown.
Don't be a clown.
Be a person.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Monday, October 10, 2011
Art Is Dead
Where's the crack of the unconscious? I mean the great gulf. Hammers strike here and there, feeling for the place. The old axes grind on the rusted, still turning wheels of artists' brains. Sharp enough to fork the squeamish folds, and drive a wedge between the hemispheres, in hope that some new daemon will scrabble out with his madness still intact. But nothing works to open the crevice wide. Maybe a puddle of insects wells up and spills over into somewhere, another corner of the brain, to feed on whatever's left. But there's no real passion. No beasts break forth. No wild bulls in the china shop where antique pleasantries line the shelves and stick out their pale, dull tongues.
If a man had an ounce of passion the whole world would hail greatness in him. Women in every country would howl again. Panties would drop, and get kicked to the side, all moist and crumpled like our minds are now. But nobody's got it. Still, you see the poets, or would-be poets (there are no poets left) whisper together in the cafés, leaning into each other's ears. "Where is it?" they want to know. Yeah, we all want to know. "Who's got it?" Man, don't bother. Don't you know, it would be front page news: ART FOUND
But we're all a bunch of third-rate Nietzsches, ringing our bells in the public squares, announcing the death of art. And wondering where are the true explorers of the unconscious. Not long ago we were feverish, hunting desperately for the new worlds, the undiscovered continents of the mind. Now, we haven't the vital breath left for desperation, but we're lazily still turning over rocks and mental blocks. Unaware that we are ghosts.
Sex is blown up. There's no discovering it now. It's everywhere before you've got whiskers on your balls or curls on your cunt. It used to be something you went looking for down dark corridors with a lit torch between your legs. Now it's just the way to hawk a hamburger. At least, in its prudishness, the world had reverence for it once.
If a man had an ounce of passion the whole world would hail greatness in him. Women in every country would howl again. Panties would drop, and get kicked to the side, all moist and crumpled like our minds are now. But nobody's got it. Still, you see the poets, or would-be poets (there are no poets left) whisper together in the cafés, leaning into each other's ears. "Where is it?" they want to know. Yeah, we all want to know. "Who's got it?" Man, don't bother. Don't you know, it would be front page news: ART FOUND
But we're all a bunch of third-rate Nietzsches, ringing our bells in the public squares, announcing the death of art. And wondering where are the true explorers of the unconscious. Not long ago we were feverish, hunting desperately for the new worlds, the undiscovered continents of the mind. Now, we haven't the vital breath left for desperation, but we're lazily still turning over rocks and mental blocks. Unaware that we are ghosts.
Sex is blown up. There's no discovering it now. It's everywhere before you've got whiskers on your balls or curls on your cunt. It used to be something you went looking for down dark corridors with a lit torch between your legs. Now it's just the way to hawk a hamburger. At least, in its prudishness, the world had reverence for it once.
The Prayerful Soul
What is the experience of a soul, once practiced in the art of prayer?
The prayerful soul, taken up into the spirit of a higher aspiration, gently ascends, as if through deepest space, toward the great hierophany of God. Silent, expectant, reverent, triumphant, and overcome with awe for what is holy, she relinquishes, imperceptibly, her long attachment to the vestiges of lower nature.
Replacing every coarse element of her being with the tenderest lineaments of light, all her qualities newly bathed in warm, ineffable luminescence, she draws to herself, and draws into herself, the wondrous substances of divine life. Softly transformed, she commends herself entirely to the singular experience of Christ.
This love, whose perfection she never could have anticipated or even quite imagined, has become, for her, the secret wellspring of all things tender, blessed, glorious, and good; a beacon of incomparable majesty, in whose presence she flutters, angelic, imbued with all the wisdom of simplicity; partaking of that blissful communion which is the sustenance of saints.
Now she herself has become as a particle of God's love, almost inseparable from the rest, golden and white, half-lost in the effulgence of His most glorious emanation; joyous to discover herself a darling of the godhead; beloved and cherished beyond all human comprehension; a lustre in the infinitely opulent penumbra of cosmic light.
Who can imagine the fullness of love, which waits, attendant, upon the prayers of a willing soul? Who can perceive, in the hidden depths of an inward life, such heavenly elevations?
The snow-capped mountains, which tower over man, and over-awe the capacities of mortal imaginations, are less than specks of dust, swept back into distant space, immaterial before the presence of His love; the one takes your breath away, the other takes your heart. While souls, which seemed so meager, so unfit to behold this brilliance, are suddenly revealed to be the dearest twinkles in the eye, -- the bluest eye, -- of Christ.
My brothers, my sisters, how dearly we must cherish the slightest devotional stirrings, which beckon to us from deep within, as echos of angelic choirs; as a summons to be honored before the throne of the King of Angels.
The prayerful soul, taken up into the spirit of a higher aspiration, gently ascends, as if through deepest space, toward the great hierophany of God. Silent, expectant, reverent, triumphant, and overcome with awe for what is holy, she relinquishes, imperceptibly, her long attachment to the vestiges of lower nature.
Replacing every coarse element of her being with the tenderest lineaments of light, all her qualities newly bathed in warm, ineffable luminescence, she draws to herself, and draws into herself, the wondrous substances of divine life. Softly transformed, she commends herself entirely to the singular experience of Christ.
This love, whose perfection she never could have anticipated or even quite imagined, has become, for her, the secret wellspring of all things tender, blessed, glorious, and good; a beacon of incomparable majesty, in whose presence she flutters, angelic, imbued with all the wisdom of simplicity; partaking of that blissful communion which is the sustenance of saints.
Now she herself has become as a particle of God's love, almost inseparable from the rest, golden and white, half-lost in the effulgence of His most glorious emanation; joyous to discover herself a darling of the godhead; beloved and cherished beyond all human comprehension; a lustre in the infinitely opulent penumbra of cosmic light.
Who can imagine the fullness of love, which waits, attendant, upon the prayers of a willing soul? Who can perceive, in the hidden depths of an inward life, such heavenly elevations?
The snow-capped mountains, which tower over man, and over-awe the capacities of mortal imaginations, are less than specks of dust, swept back into distant space, immaterial before the presence of His love; the one takes your breath away, the other takes your heart. While souls, which seemed so meager, so unfit to behold this brilliance, are suddenly revealed to be the dearest twinkles in the eye, -- the bluest eye, -- of Christ.
My brothers, my sisters, how dearly we must cherish the slightest devotional stirrings, which beckon to us from deep within, as echos of angelic choirs; as a summons to be honored before the throne of the King of Angels.
Monastic Activism
Seemingly the greatest, and certainly the most common, objection raised against monks, is that the monastic life represents a retreat from worldly duties, and an abdication of social responsibility. In fact, this could not be further from the truth. On the contrary, while the monk does retreat to some extent from the mundane affairs of humanity, he or she does so only in order to wage a confrontation of far greater magnitude and importance.
By natural methods, worldly science has revealed knowledge concerning operations in nature which remain hidden from the naked eye and inaccessible to less sophisticated observation. In the same way, yet through supernatural methods, spiritual science has revealed wisdom concerning operations in supernature which remain hidden from the naked eye (as well as from the biologist's microscope) and inaccessible to less sophisticated observation.
For example:
The experiments of worldly science have shown how trees absorb carbon dioxide, which is harmful to the biological life of humanity, and, by a process of chemical transmutation, exude oxygen, which is healthful to it. In like manner, the experiments of spiritual science have shown how monks absorb demonic energies, which are harmful to the theological life of humanity, and, by a process of alchemical transmutation, exude angelic energies, which are healthful to it. By the testimony of worldly science, we know that trees are responsible for preserving the quality of the air upon which our bodies subsist. Likewise, by the testimony of spiritual science, we know that monks are responsible for preserving the quality of the spirit upon which our souls subsist.
A monk, sincerely and diligently active in the realms of spirit, transmuting, by his presence and effort there, all manner of foul energies, acts simultaneously like a great sponge, or vacuum, sucking up all that clouds and dirties the spiritual atmosphere of humankind, and like a great generator of spiritual warmth and light.
Although many activists in society believe they alone are confronting social ills directly, the fact is that they are merely chopping at the branches, and pruning the leaves, of evil in the world. The monks, engaged in spiritual warfare, are busy digging up the very roots.
Those with little or no comprehension of subtle (i.e. spiritual) energies must find this difficult to understand. Nonetheless, it is the case, and they would do well to consider it.
By natural methods, worldly science has revealed knowledge concerning operations in nature which remain hidden from the naked eye and inaccessible to less sophisticated observation. In the same way, yet through supernatural methods, spiritual science has revealed wisdom concerning operations in supernature which remain hidden from the naked eye (as well as from the biologist's microscope) and inaccessible to less sophisticated observation.
For example:
The experiments of worldly science have shown how trees absorb carbon dioxide, which is harmful to the biological life of humanity, and, by a process of chemical transmutation, exude oxygen, which is healthful to it. In like manner, the experiments of spiritual science have shown how monks absorb demonic energies, which are harmful to the theological life of humanity, and, by a process of alchemical transmutation, exude angelic energies, which are healthful to it. By the testimony of worldly science, we know that trees are responsible for preserving the quality of the air upon which our bodies subsist. Likewise, by the testimony of spiritual science, we know that monks are responsible for preserving the quality of the spirit upon which our souls subsist.
A monk, sincerely and diligently active in the realms of spirit, transmuting, by his presence and effort there, all manner of foul energies, acts simultaneously like a great sponge, or vacuum, sucking up all that clouds and dirties the spiritual atmosphere of humankind, and like a great generator of spiritual warmth and light.
Although many activists in society believe they alone are confronting social ills directly, the fact is that they are merely chopping at the branches, and pruning the leaves, of evil in the world. The monks, engaged in spiritual warfare, are busy digging up the very roots.
Those with little or no comprehension of subtle (i.e. spiritual) energies must find this difficult to understand. Nonetheless, it is the case, and they would do well to consider it.
The Weeping Prophet (a parable)
There was once a man so inspired with the wisdom of God that, whenever he would begin to meditate, another insight would flash before his mind. So profound were these insights, or "openings", and so taken was he with their brilliance, that he would immediately break-off his meditation in order to record them, lest they be forgotten and lost forever.
In this manner, he proceeded for many years, writing many books, and drawing many souls into the mysteries of God. Yet he himself never experienced the deep and abiding peace which, in his heart of hearts, he sought to receive from the Lord, and which unbroken meditation would have procured for him.
Then, one day, after he had become old and feeble, and could see his own death approaching from not far off, he finally came to give priority to silence over even the most exalted speech. It was then that he dismissed the fine thoughts which clamored for his attention, and sank into a truly blissful union with the mystical God.
From such an incredible state of oneness, he came at last to see that his words, and even the most precious sayings of his lord, Jesus Christ, were as nothing -- specks of dust -- in comparison with the inner experience of God's love, light, truth, presence, and peace. He wept bitterly for all the time he had lost.
What he did not know then, was that the insights he dismissed were never lost, but mysteriously found their way to another vessel, ready and willing to record them.
In this manner, he proceeded for many years, writing many books, and drawing many souls into the mysteries of God. Yet he himself never experienced the deep and abiding peace which, in his heart of hearts, he sought to receive from the Lord, and which unbroken meditation would have procured for him.
Then, one day, after he had become old and feeble, and could see his own death approaching from not far off, he finally came to give priority to silence over even the most exalted speech. It was then that he dismissed the fine thoughts which clamored for his attention, and sank into a truly blissful union with the mystical God.
From such an incredible state of oneness, he came at last to see that his words, and even the most precious sayings of his lord, Jesus Christ, were as nothing -- specks of dust -- in comparison with the inner experience of God's love, light, truth, presence, and peace. He wept bitterly for all the time he had lost.
What he did not know then, was that the insights he dismissed were never lost, but mysteriously found their way to another vessel, ready and willing to record them.
Forgiveness, A Formality
When I ask God to forgive me, "I speak as a man" (to borrow the expression of Saint Paul the Apostle); it is said for convenience, and does not adequately or literally convey my understanding of God's mercy, which is infinite and freely given before I desire it. To be precise, it is not God who must forgive me, for God has never judged me; it is I who must repent.
Confession is for my own benefit, and for the purification of my own soul. It is something I owe to myself, and not to God; for God was never compromised or corrupted by my sins; I have only hurt myself. I have only myself to blame, and only myself to forgive; for all of the choices were mine.
Therefore, an appropriate and conscious way to speak would be to say:
"Lord, I know that You, in Your great love, have already absolved me and called me back into Your fold. Nevertheless, for my own edification, let me confess my transgressions and repent of them as I may. Though You have compassion for my sins, still I must do all that I can to disown them. And though you have never judged me, I know You will forgive me now as a matter of form, seeing that we have a precedent in the baptism of Your Son by John the Forerunner."
For, when Jesus had no need to be baptised, and John was unworthy of baptising him, yet, because it was seemly, the annointing took place: 'Suffer it to be so now: for thus it becometh us to fulfil all righteousness.' Christ, being perfect, had no need to humble himself in this way, but, had he not done so, he would have ceased in that moment to be the Christ; and this could never happen.
So, if even Jesus, who was faithful concerning the greatest things, did not neglect the smallest, how much more so ought we to observe these things? If Christ, who understood the reality of justification by grace better than anyone, remained faithful to "the last tittle" of the law, then how much more so ought we to perform the works prescribed? And if he who is exalted above all things still humbles himself, how much more so ought we to humble ourselves?
Truly, to be alert, one must stay alert. The watchful are only watchful because they keep watch; moment after moment after moment, day after day after day. The righteous continue to be righteous, and the perfect remain perfect.
Confession is for my own benefit, and for the purification of my own soul. It is something I owe to myself, and not to God; for God was never compromised or corrupted by my sins; I have only hurt myself. I have only myself to blame, and only myself to forgive; for all of the choices were mine.
Therefore, an appropriate and conscious way to speak would be to say:
"Lord, I know that You, in Your great love, have already absolved me and called me back into Your fold. Nevertheless, for my own edification, let me confess my transgressions and repent of them as I may. Though You have compassion for my sins, still I must do all that I can to disown them. And though you have never judged me, I know You will forgive me now as a matter of form, seeing that we have a precedent in the baptism of Your Son by John the Forerunner."
For, when Jesus had no need to be baptised, and John was unworthy of baptising him, yet, because it was seemly, the annointing took place: 'Suffer it to be so now: for thus it becometh us to fulfil all righteousness.' Christ, being perfect, had no need to humble himself in this way, but, had he not done so, he would have ceased in that moment to be the Christ; and this could never happen.
So, if even Jesus, who was faithful concerning the greatest things, did not neglect the smallest, how much more so ought we to observe these things? If Christ, who understood the reality of justification by grace better than anyone, remained faithful to "the last tittle" of the law, then how much more so ought we to perform the works prescribed? And if he who is exalted above all things still humbles himself, how much more so ought we to humble ourselves?
Truly, to be alert, one must stay alert. The watchful are only watchful because they keep watch; moment after moment after moment, day after day after day. The righteous continue to be righteous, and the perfect remain perfect.
No Knowledge Is Objective
[Author's Note: I could be wrong.]
It is my conviction (and I do not believe I am presumptuous in supposing it ought to be yours as well) that nothing is self-evident, and nothing -- no logic, proof, or experience of inner validity, -- however honored by tradition or convincing in itself, is sufficient to qualify any statement, doctrine, or position as incontrovertibly true.
No doubt, I myself will contradict this conviction, and betray my negligence of it, time and again, for the mind (or, at any rate, my own mind) is a fragmentary and undisciplined thing, frequently unconscious of its own most well-established pronouncements. We are habituated to a million foolish and commonplace figures of thought and speech, many of them manifested merely for convenience and expressing a kind of shorthand which, if we had infinite time, space, energy, ability, and inclination, we might still never succeed in clarifying by the process of articulation. Absolute clarity is not only ineffable, it is unachievable, for, though we may not often be conscious of it, we are perpetually and inextricably engaged in the act of refining and questioning our own views. It is only by ignoring these considerations that we come to demand consistency of thought and expression from ourselves or from others.
Nevertheless, I proclaim it now, as strange as it must sound, and as foreign a thing to my own mind, that there is ultimately no foundation solid enough to support the claim that any perception is undeniably more true than any other. There is always some larger vision, always some angle which transcends our perspective and eludes our notice, so that we are finally constrained to admit the limitations of our knowledge, and the intrinsically specious foundations upon which it rests.
We have seen with what stark and inscrutable verisimilitude the fantasies of pure lunatics may be imbued, so that reality itself (or what we call reality) cannot by any means be distinguished from a fiction. At last, we cannot deny the possibility that we, too, are mad, and that what seems to us true beyond any shadow of doubt may in fact be the most outlandish fabrication of delirium.
In saving a life, we may (unwittingly) be shattering a soul, or in saving a soul, we may be striking a formidable blow against the spirit. Whatever we do, we do according to the light which is given, understanding that light, wherever it plays, plays tricks.
It is my conviction (and I do not believe I am presumptuous in supposing it ought to be yours as well) that nothing is self-evident, and nothing -- no logic, proof, or experience of inner validity, -- however honored by tradition or convincing in itself, is sufficient to qualify any statement, doctrine, or position as incontrovertibly true.
No doubt, I myself will contradict this conviction, and betray my negligence of it, time and again, for the mind (or, at any rate, my own mind) is a fragmentary and undisciplined thing, frequently unconscious of its own most well-established pronouncements. We are habituated to a million foolish and commonplace figures of thought and speech, many of them manifested merely for convenience and expressing a kind of shorthand which, if we had infinite time, space, energy, ability, and inclination, we might still never succeed in clarifying by the process of articulation. Absolute clarity is not only ineffable, it is unachievable, for, though we may not often be conscious of it, we are perpetually and inextricably engaged in the act of refining and questioning our own views. It is only by ignoring these considerations that we come to demand consistency of thought and expression from ourselves or from others.
Nevertheless, I proclaim it now, as strange as it must sound, and as foreign a thing to my own mind, that there is ultimately no foundation solid enough to support the claim that any perception is undeniably more true than any other. There is always some larger vision, always some angle which transcends our perspective and eludes our notice, so that we are finally constrained to admit the limitations of our knowledge, and the intrinsically specious foundations upon which it rests.
We have seen with what stark and inscrutable verisimilitude the fantasies of pure lunatics may be imbued, so that reality itself (or what we call reality) cannot by any means be distinguished from a fiction. At last, we cannot deny the possibility that we, too, are mad, and that what seems to us true beyond any shadow of doubt may in fact be the most outlandish fabrication of delirium.
In saving a life, we may (unwittingly) be shattering a soul, or in saving a soul, we may be striking a formidable blow against the spirit. Whatever we do, we do according to the light which is given, understanding that light, wherever it plays, plays tricks.
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