We are all learning what we are teaching. We do not speak from a reservoir of wisdom, but as we speak, wisdom is refreshed; for ourselves as we write and, later, for our readers as they read.
If we speak with unflinching authority and assurance, it is only because it is the custom of our people upon which we are all most dependent. "But the tongue can no man tame; it is an unruly evil, full of deadly poison," (James 3:8). The tongue is said to be the last and most difficult member to tame, and I can well confirm it.
We naturally long to make statements, to stand firm, and to assert. Questions, on the other hand, require patience, tact, humility, diplomacy, and, more than these, the courage, or ripeness of will, to confront uncertainty.
Such a thing seems almost unnatural to us, for it would appear counter intuitive, to question when the will is ripe. Nevertheless, although this is the exception, it is not hard to trace from the rule. It is merely the anomaly; something in nature which does not dominate (and the survival of which must not depend on dominance); it is rare to nature, and, yet, as natural as any other natural thing.
We must be certain, yes, but we must be certain, foremost, of our ignorance, and that there is no other course left open to us now but to inquire, and to confront the contradiction which halts our progressing assertions and bisects our path, like a river too wide and deep to cross. We must fashion a boat! We must evolve.
Beavers are not born building dams, -- well, perhaps, now they are, having only acquired the instinct through habit, practiced over many generations. Who knows that someday humans will not be born asking questions; rather than making statements? Perhaps asking questions will be as instinctual to us as gathering materials and building his dam is to the beaver. A great deal of what we call instinct is just tradition; deeply, generationally, ingrained habits, which, nonetheless, must still be remembered, taught, and passed down. Don't animals have their teachings and traditions, as we have ours, though we interpret these as "instincts"? But to return now to our point of origin, and the point of our discussion.
We learn, practice, and master what we teach; and we cannot but be in the process of learning while teaching, for there can be no mastery which is perfect (and has dispensed with learning), except it be divine, and scarcely accountable to mortal eyes. On earth, it is one of the finest things to see, that a man always has more to teach, who has discovered, having learned to discover, just how much he has to learn.
Friday, January 29, 2010
The "Aha!/Duh!" Moment
Everything truly deep and beautiful has to produce a "duh", and a fresh realization, as well; both at the same time, or in quick succession.
The profundity is actually contained in the paradox that unites and separates these two; -- it is both an abyss and a bridge between two masses of solid land which do not meet, but are bisected by the subtler substance of the water below.
(Let's not enter the current of this water now, lest we forget our topic, and all else besides, but return to our bridge over the abyss.)
Every great problem is an abyss without a bridge, and every great solution is as simple, and as difficult, as building a bridge. Joan Baez writes: "Action is the antidote to despair." Profound, because it is so obvious and we didnt see it -- it still appeared suddenly new to us.
That's beautful. That's the "aha!/duh!" moment. As delicious as it is humbling. It can only delight and humble us, to see the simplest things again and again, and always be struck by them.
The profundity is actually contained in the paradox that unites and separates these two; -- it is both an abyss and a bridge between two masses of solid land which do not meet, but are bisected by the subtler substance of the water below.
(Let's not enter the current of this water now, lest we forget our topic, and all else besides, but return to our bridge over the abyss.)
Every great problem is an abyss without a bridge, and every great solution is as simple, and as difficult, as building a bridge. Joan Baez writes: "Action is the antidote to despair." Profound, because it is so obvious and we didnt see it -- it still appeared suddenly new to us.
That's beautful. That's the "aha!/duh!" moment. As delicious as it is humbling. It can only delight and humble us, to see the simplest things again and again, and always be struck by them.
"Let The Bull Have The Strength"
I'll say it again: I praise the minimal, the immaterial, unmanifest, inchoate, and all that flashes through the mind like a bolt; out of nowhere, and going nowhere. I honor the indolent, aimless, wandering exception, and the divine right of every individual to spend their lifetime in search of a truly solid place to stand, and a truly clear word to speak.
I say that the surplus of the rich, gifted, favored, or resourceful should supply the basic requirements, not only of the frail and the decrepit, but of the licentious as well; of those who are weak, but also strong, in ways which men have been taught to damn, and to read as wicked.
I positively assert the value of spontaneous, self-initiated action, and the lack of external responsibility; of undirected reflection and contemplation as greater than or equal to the devoted pursuit of material goods and worldly gains (to say nothing, at this time, of spiritual devotions), whether they be acquired for one's own, or for community's sake.
If a duty is owed, I say, let it be owed to those who live, -- that their fundamental needs should be met, and the integrity of their natural dispositions respected, -- and to the unborn, -- that they ought not to be lightly and arrogantly ushered into a world as yet unprepared for, and still so unsure of, them.
How ironic, and yet, how appropriate, -- how ironically appropriate, -- is the expression "expectant parents", when you consider just how much is expected, not merely by one's parents, but by the society at large! If most people do not despair of meeting, and even come to defend as their own, these expectations, it is only because they are not of the type which most suffers and strains to meet, or else to renounce (and, if called, denounce) the expectations of the present age.
The community of incarnate souls here on earth ought to provide a paradise capable of reflecting the magnificence of the highest realms of the spirit if they are going to presume to wield the creative power, and to potentially drag noble spirits down to be encumbered by the flesh. Instead, we are seemingly born to satisfy the whims and expectations of our progenitors (often themselves merely fulfilling some blind mandate from "The Joneses" on high), and to labour in accordance with the prescribed values of an obsessively materialistic, competitive, and warlike civilization.
We are like men in private skiffs, lured aboard a ship only to find that the vessel has sprung a leak and is sinking, -- moreover, that it is the intention of the crew to put us to work, jettisoning water and various articles. Is it not strange, that ballast should be brought aboard a ship for the purpose of jettisoning ballast? Such is our condition.
Or, perhaps more fitting, we board this ship only to discover that she is presently under attack by ruthless cutthroats, and we have been drafted, as it were, onto the losing side. Of course, no man, however lately aboard the ship, may refuse the order, for he is instantly conferred with the rank of soldier, and any such refusal would only spell mutiny.
If we make the least complaint, and suggest that a human being, or a soul, is entitled to a warmer reception than this, we are met with the scorn and contempt of those whom we might otherwise have exalted. It is not enough that we must be subject to alien obligations, we must pretend to approve of them as well.
All the evils in our world correspond to (I do not say "originate from") the overestimation of what is solid, clear, direct, complete, finite, settled, known, and manifest; and, conversely, to the underestimation, and, finally, stigmatization (in some cases, criminalization), of what is subtle, ambivalent, mysterious, numinous, and indirect. While many claim to appreciate, or, at least, to tolerate, these latter, the experience of unusually subtle, ambivalent, etc., people testifies to their profound isolation and marginal status in the face of what has come to be called the world, or the civilized world.
Some are lucky enough to find support with a spouse, among friends, or, in the rarest of cases, with a community of wise and accepting individuals. Far more end up dead or half-dead, in the streets with an addiction, or hanging from a belt in the closet; the coroner's report reads: SUICIDE But, like most things in the modern world, its ostensible; the true guilt, if there is anything worthy of that name, belongs to all of us, -- and, if I may say so, to those of us, chiefly, who promote an agenda of materiality, productivity, and consumerism, which essentially forces sensitive natures to conform with a value system which they had no say in erecting, and which plays almost exclusively to their weaknesses, while effectively demonizing their strengths.
The great irony is that these are the ones we now think of as burdens to society, but they are burdens only to a corrupt system, and a false way of visioning the world. The future geniuses of mankind will arise from the ranks of these marginal, "oversensitive" types; not necessarily more sensitive, but, sensitive to more; sensitive, perhaps, only to the present form of society, which rubs them utterly the wrong way. Somehow, their brilliance will illuminate the folly of our civilization, and many who mock and jeer now, if only they live to see it, will unconsciously proclaim, and order their lives according to, the very philosophy which they now consider a foolish and damnable heresy.
How can such a people be instructed? They praise lofty, immortal, and incorporeal things, while enthroning (as imperative!) the laborious production and accumulation of what is essentially shallow, perishable, and corporeal. They admire the subtle and the ponderous, but just so much; their true sympathy is for what is solid, simple, clear, and direct. They, ultimately and immediately, have no patience for the receptive, introverted, retiring, and questioning soul. The only coin they'll approve is action. The only truth they trust is a dollar and a paying customer. If they attract an audience, any audience, they feel confirmed in calling the performance a success.
It is only because they themselves are relatively simple, instinctive, and unconcerned with reconciling diverse elements within themselves (why should they concern themselves? -- they are reconciled already; self-satisfied, locked into a secure identity, relative to an equally air-tight and infallible, or, in any case, superior, worldview) that they have no true capacity for empathy or the wisdom of vicarious experience; which, no doubt, the most witty among them will not hesitate to call "the experience of vicarious wisdom".
Admire them, by all means, for the homogeneous, unified, and masculine front they project, even as individuals (we use the term lightly). Envy them the majority. They are neither fragmented, self-occupied, God-occupied, eccentric, nor marginal. There is much that deserves respect in their dispositions, talents, and characters. If anything, they are too modest in some respects; not mindful enough of the strengths, advantages, and gifts which they possess, -- for they wrongly believe these are the common possession of all men; and that it is only the brave or cowardly use of "free will" which determines whether or not one will make use of these things. They do not see resourcefulness, pragmatism, or single-pointedness of will, as privileges afforded them by nature, and withheld from so many others -- not just from the injured, deformed, or insane, but from those whom they have seen fit to credit with an unclaimed will; to label "losers", "deadbeats", "dreamers", and so on. For this reason, and because their temperaments immure them from criticism, both internal and external, and from anything that might effectively challenge their convictions, they remain persuaded that what works for them must work for all.
What we call Western Civilization firmly bears out this persuasion. There is an unshakable faith in their right to deny help to the person who cannot help him or herself. Excepting only the most extreme cases of lunatics and invalids, they invariably interpret the words "can not" as "will not". Since their faith in the universality of this will (which amounts to a will to conform -- or, else, a will to oppose, always in a socially engaged, institutionally sanctioned, and, most importantly, paying form -- but never a will to abstain, to wait, withdraw, observe, or reflect) is beyond question, so also is their right to set it up as an injunction for all.
The result is a dramatically perverse culture, driven by competition rather than cooperation, and rooted in other perverse cultures. So deep do these roots go.. thousands of years.. maybe tens of thousands... such that it has even become difficult to speak, and so conceive, of something so unorthodox as what I desire to propose here.
We haven't the language to say what must be said. Our words are rooted in the errors of the past; "the sins of the fathers". We even employ the expression "root words" to indicate the ancient lodestones of our modern language. But our words, and fathers, have steered us wrong. It's time to plant a new seed.
Hemingway, in his essay "Death in the Afternoon", relates the following anecdote:
"Once someone asked Rafael Gomez, El Gallo, nearing fifty years old, a gypsy, brother of Jose Gomez, Gallito, and the then last living member of the great family of gypsy bullfighters of that name, what physical exercise he, Gallo, took to keep his strength up for bullfighting.
"Strength," Gallo said. "What do I want with strength man? The bull weighs half a ton. Should I take exercises for strength to match him? Let the bull have the strength."
I cite this passage to help illustrate a difficult problem. Everywhere, strength is praised and, praise being insufficient, advocated. Or this, or that, virtue. It doesn't matter which. The point is that we are enjoined to exhibit, not only the virtues granted us by our creator, but, all, or nearly all, the virtues which have ever belonged to a human being. The case of the nonconformist is only a microcosm which, one hopes, may clarify this issue of unnatural expectations which all of us face to some extent. We are judged every day according to schemes which we do not respect, and someone is always ready to inform us that we are in grave danger of losing a race which we have no intention of, and no business, running in the first place. Not all are fit to reflect the mysteries. Not all are fit to engage in, say, commerce, diplomacy, or, for that matter, romance. We should praise and practice those gifts we have, without giving too much attention to those we lack. And learn to respect the gifts of others, without recognizing the injunction to develop them ourselves. "Let the bull have the strength."
I say that the surplus of the rich, gifted, favored, or resourceful should supply the basic requirements, not only of the frail and the decrepit, but of the licentious as well; of those who are weak, but also strong, in ways which men have been taught to damn, and to read as wicked.
I positively assert the value of spontaneous, self-initiated action, and the lack of external responsibility; of undirected reflection and contemplation as greater than or equal to the devoted pursuit of material goods and worldly gains (to say nothing, at this time, of spiritual devotions), whether they be acquired for one's own, or for community's sake.
If a duty is owed, I say, let it be owed to those who live, -- that their fundamental needs should be met, and the integrity of their natural dispositions respected, -- and to the unborn, -- that they ought not to be lightly and arrogantly ushered into a world as yet unprepared for, and still so unsure of, them.
How ironic, and yet, how appropriate, -- how ironically appropriate, -- is the expression "expectant parents", when you consider just how much is expected, not merely by one's parents, but by the society at large! If most people do not despair of meeting, and even come to defend as their own, these expectations, it is only because they are not of the type which most suffers and strains to meet, or else to renounce (and, if called, denounce) the expectations of the present age.
The community of incarnate souls here on earth ought to provide a paradise capable of reflecting the magnificence of the highest realms of the spirit if they are going to presume to wield the creative power, and to potentially drag noble spirits down to be encumbered by the flesh. Instead, we are seemingly born to satisfy the whims and expectations of our progenitors (often themselves merely fulfilling some blind mandate from "The Joneses" on high), and to labour in accordance with the prescribed values of an obsessively materialistic, competitive, and warlike civilization.
We are like men in private skiffs, lured aboard a ship only to find that the vessel has sprung a leak and is sinking, -- moreover, that it is the intention of the crew to put us to work, jettisoning water and various articles. Is it not strange, that ballast should be brought aboard a ship for the purpose of jettisoning ballast? Such is our condition.
Or, perhaps more fitting, we board this ship only to discover that she is presently under attack by ruthless cutthroats, and we have been drafted, as it were, onto the losing side. Of course, no man, however lately aboard the ship, may refuse the order, for he is instantly conferred with the rank of soldier, and any such refusal would only spell mutiny.
If we make the least complaint, and suggest that a human being, or a soul, is entitled to a warmer reception than this, we are met with the scorn and contempt of those whom we might otherwise have exalted. It is not enough that we must be subject to alien obligations, we must pretend to approve of them as well.
All the evils in our world correspond to (I do not say "originate from") the overestimation of what is solid, clear, direct, complete, finite, settled, known, and manifest; and, conversely, to the underestimation, and, finally, stigmatization (in some cases, criminalization), of what is subtle, ambivalent, mysterious, numinous, and indirect. While many claim to appreciate, or, at least, to tolerate, these latter, the experience of unusually subtle, ambivalent, etc., people testifies to their profound isolation and marginal status in the face of what has come to be called the world, or the civilized world.
Some are lucky enough to find support with a spouse, among friends, or, in the rarest of cases, with a community of wise and accepting individuals. Far more end up dead or half-dead, in the streets with an addiction, or hanging from a belt in the closet; the coroner's report reads: SUICIDE But, like most things in the modern world, its ostensible; the true guilt, if there is anything worthy of that name, belongs to all of us, -- and, if I may say so, to those of us, chiefly, who promote an agenda of materiality, productivity, and consumerism, which essentially forces sensitive natures to conform with a value system which they had no say in erecting, and which plays almost exclusively to their weaknesses, while effectively demonizing their strengths.
The great irony is that these are the ones we now think of as burdens to society, but they are burdens only to a corrupt system, and a false way of visioning the world. The future geniuses of mankind will arise from the ranks of these marginal, "oversensitive" types; not necessarily more sensitive, but, sensitive to more; sensitive, perhaps, only to the present form of society, which rubs them utterly the wrong way. Somehow, their brilliance will illuminate the folly of our civilization, and many who mock and jeer now, if only they live to see it, will unconsciously proclaim, and order their lives according to, the very philosophy which they now consider a foolish and damnable heresy.
How can such a people be instructed? They praise lofty, immortal, and incorporeal things, while enthroning (as imperative!) the laborious production and accumulation of what is essentially shallow, perishable, and corporeal. They admire the subtle and the ponderous, but just so much; their true sympathy is for what is solid, simple, clear, and direct. They, ultimately and immediately, have no patience for the receptive, introverted, retiring, and questioning soul. The only coin they'll approve is action. The only truth they trust is a dollar and a paying customer. If they attract an audience, any audience, they feel confirmed in calling the performance a success.
It is only because they themselves are relatively simple, instinctive, and unconcerned with reconciling diverse elements within themselves (why should they concern themselves? -- they are reconciled already; self-satisfied, locked into a secure identity, relative to an equally air-tight and infallible, or, in any case, superior, worldview) that they have no true capacity for empathy or the wisdom of vicarious experience; which, no doubt, the most witty among them will not hesitate to call "the experience of vicarious wisdom".
Admire them, by all means, for the homogeneous, unified, and masculine front they project, even as individuals (we use the term lightly). Envy them the majority. They are neither fragmented, self-occupied, God-occupied, eccentric, nor marginal. There is much that deserves respect in their dispositions, talents, and characters. If anything, they are too modest in some respects; not mindful enough of the strengths, advantages, and gifts which they possess, -- for they wrongly believe these are the common possession of all men; and that it is only the brave or cowardly use of "free will" which determines whether or not one will make use of these things. They do not see resourcefulness, pragmatism, or single-pointedness of will, as privileges afforded them by nature, and withheld from so many others -- not just from the injured, deformed, or insane, but from those whom they have seen fit to credit with an unclaimed will; to label "losers", "deadbeats", "dreamers", and so on. For this reason, and because their temperaments immure them from criticism, both internal and external, and from anything that might effectively challenge their convictions, they remain persuaded that what works for them must work for all.
What we call Western Civilization firmly bears out this persuasion. There is an unshakable faith in their right to deny help to the person who cannot help him or herself. Excepting only the most extreme cases of lunatics and invalids, they invariably interpret the words "can not" as "will not". Since their faith in the universality of this will (which amounts to a will to conform -- or, else, a will to oppose, always in a socially engaged, institutionally sanctioned, and, most importantly, paying form -- but never a will to abstain, to wait, withdraw, observe, or reflect) is beyond question, so also is their right to set it up as an injunction for all.
The result is a dramatically perverse culture, driven by competition rather than cooperation, and rooted in other perverse cultures. So deep do these roots go.. thousands of years.. maybe tens of thousands... such that it has even become difficult to speak, and so conceive, of something so unorthodox as what I desire to propose here.
We haven't the language to say what must be said. Our words are rooted in the errors of the past; "the sins of the fathers". We even employ the expression "root words" to indicate the ancient lodestones of our modern language. But our words, and fathers, have steered us wrong. It's time to plant a new seed.
Hemingway, in his essay "Death in the Afternoon", relates the following anecdote:
"Once someone asked Rafael Gomez, El Gallo, nearing fifty years old, a gypsy, brother of Jose Gomez, Gallito, and the then last living member of the great family of gypsy bullfighters of that name, what physical exercise he, Gallo, took to keep his strength up for bullfighting.
"Strength," Gallo said. "What do I want with strength man? The bull weighs half a ton. Should I take exercises for strength to match him? Let the bull have the strength."
I cite this passage to help illustrate a difficult problem. Everywhere, strength is praised and, praise being insufficient, advocated. Or this, or that, virtue. It doesn't matter which. The point is that we are enjoined to exhibit, not only the virtues granted us by our creator, but, all, or nearly all, the virtues which have ever belonged to a human being. The case of the nonconformist is only a microcosm which, one hopes, may clarify this issue of unnatural expectations which all of us face to some extent. We are judged every day according to schemes which we do not respect, and someone is always ready to inform us that we are in grave danger of losing a race which we have no intention of, and no business, running in the first place. Not all are fit to reflect the mysteries. Not all are fit to engage in, say, commerce, diplomacy, or, for that matter, romance. We should praise and practice those gifts we have, without giving too much attention to those we lack. And learn to respect the gifts of others, without recognizing the injunction to develop them ourselves. "Let the bull have the strength."
Liminal Space
I tinker in the liminal space, where idioms go to die, in a flail of mixed metaphors, implications, and asides. My mental universe houses Brahma, Neptune, Jehovah, and many more besides. I don't fuss over paradox. I am a citizen of the imagination.
Sequestered in confusion, so that I might be open to the suggestion of a stranger -- to a stranger suggestion; to music in the mind; to found words, I never knew the meaning of, and had to make my own; like alien instruments I could never play, but knocked against the rocks, and was happy if they only made a novel sound.
Ideas, that, in some other order, might harmonize the cosmos, I took for simple chalks and paints, and arranged according to my taste. As a metaphysician, I was no rigorous explorer and scientist, but a visionary; an artist. I did not seek sense in things, but demanded that things have no sense at all apart from the sense which I, according to my inspired whims, attributed to them.
Out of an apparently chaotic universe, I could make and unmake a thousand likely schemes. But what I could not allow, -- what I could never even permit myself to consider, for more than a trembling moment -- was the possibility that a truth existed; a single truth, which one must find, and endeavor, with all one's strength, to come into alignment with; or else, leave unfound, but governing one's actions nonetheless, albeit unconsciously and in secret.
If such a proposition was considered, I swear, it could only have been for an instant, and never in all sincerity. For the true artist's heart refuses to respect any authority but it's own. To be an artist is to create, but if there is a Creator, and a Creation submissive to His will, then what is there left to create?
If man is made in the image of God, then the artist must be made in the spitting image of God; jealous, and unable to abide any other gods before him. The artist dispenses with God in order that he may exemplify Him; in order that he may create, as God creates, but on a level congenial to himself.
Only for the artist has Creation not been exhausted. Only for the artist are all things superabundant still. Laws are not laws. Circles are not round. If he suspects it, it is possible. If he thinks it, it is so. If he doubts it, suddenly, all is dispersed, and it is as though the thing had never been. Worlds come into being underneath his ponderous eye, only to be annihilated, when he yawns and turns away.
While other men scramble with one another, like rats fighting over a clod of cheese, he is content to be a god in his own mind. And if the world should not leave him to his daydreams, he'll respectfully take his leave of the world (which, in any case, has never held significant value for him as anything but a grist and mill for his daydreams). Who does not envy, -- or is not, at least, tempted to envy, -- this radical freedom and detachment from worldly affairs?
Many struggle to find meaning in the world, and to defend the general faith in the importance of that search for meaning. But here is a type who irreverently insists that there be no ultimate meaning, and that the only meaning which may be attributed to the world must be a meaning which he feels in his own heart. And when he ceases to feel it, it ceases to be meaningful. And then a new feeling, and a new meaning is found.
The heartbeat of the universe is his own. The eye that creates is his own seeing eye. He sleeps under a sky which exists for him alone; as the Sabbath exists for man. He gazes on the tree of life, and basks in its shade, for it sprouts from his own navel.
Now he is Vishnu, but, quicker than the thought, he has become a flaming sword in the fist of Agni. He is a dervish whirling over mountain ranges, glaciers crumbling underfoot. He is ivory in the mouth of a furious tiger. He is polished shell in the riverbed. There he is, carried up into the wind, and pulled apart like a cloud.
Sequestered in confusion, so that I might be open to the suggestion of a stranger -- to a stranger suggestion; to music in the mind; to found words, I never knew the meaning of, and had to make my own; like alien instruments I could never play, but knocked against the rocks, and was happy if they only made a novel sound.
Ideas, that, in some other order, might harmonize the cosmos, I took for simple chalks and paints, and arranged according to my taste. As a metaphysician, I was no rigorous explorer and scientist, but a visionary; an artist. I did not seek sense in things, but demanded that things have no sense at all apart from the sense which I, according to my inspired whims, attributed to them.
Out of an apparently chaotic universe, I could make and unmake a thousand likely schemes. But what I could not allow, -- what I could never even permit myself to consider, for more than a trembling moment -- was the possibility that a truth existed; a single truth, which one must find, and endeavor, with all one's strength, to come into alignment with; or else, leave unfound, but governing one's actions nonetheless, albeit unconsciously and in secret.
If such a proposition was considered, I swear, it could only have been for an instant, and never in all sincerity. For the true artist's heart refuses to respect any authority but it's own. To be an artist is to create, but if there is a Creator, and a Creation submissive to His will, then what is there left to create?
If man is made in the image of God, then the artist must be made in the spitting image of God; jealous, and unable to abide any other gods before him. The artist dispenses with God in order that he may exemplify Him; in order that he may create, as God creates, but on a level congenial to himself.
Only for the artist has Creation not been exhausted. Only for the artist are all things superabundant still. Laws are not laws. Circles are not round. If he suspects it, it is possible. If he thinks it, it is so. If he doubts it, suddenly, all is dispersed, and it is as though the thing had never been. Worlds come into being underneath his ponderous eye, only to be annihilated, when he yawns and turns away.
While other men scramble with one another, like rats fighting over a clod of cheese, he is content to be a god in his own mind. And if the world should not leave him to his daydreams, he'll respectfully take his leave of the world (which, in any case, has never held significant value for him as anything but a grist and mill for his daydreams). Who does not envy, -- or is not, at least, tempted to envy, -- this radical freedom and detachment from worldly affairs?
Many struggle to find meaning in the world, and to defend the general faith in the importance of that search for meaning. But here is a type who irreverently insists that there be no ultimate meaning, and that the only meaning which may be attributed to the world must be a meaning which he feels in his own heart. And when he ceases to feel it, it ceases to be meaningful. And then a new feeling, and a new meaning is found.
The heartbeat of the universe is his own. The eye that creates is his own seeing eye. He sleeps under a sky which exists for him alone; as the Sabbath exists for man. He gazes on the tree of life, and basks in its shade, for it sprouts from his own navel.
Now he is Vishnu, but, quicker than the thought, he has become a flaming sword in the fist of Agni. He is a dervish whirling over mountain ranges, glaciers crumbling underfoot. He is ivory in the mouth of a furious tiger. He is polished shell in the riverbed. There he is, carried up into the wind, and pulled apart like a cloud.
Innocence
The brain is a many-hissing tangle of serpents;
wise, half-wise, and contradicting one another.
The heart is a quiet plea;
a question which cannot be answered yet,
but patiently insists on being asked.
The body is a wanderer.
The soul is a dream.
Trees are windows onto natureworlds.
Rocks are doorways onto underworlds;
where slithering and creeping intentions evolve.
Here is a laboratory,
where experiment undermines experiment,
and wanting to know is an affliction
that only marks you out.
Now we see from the merest corner.
Now we stand in the center,
perspective in perspective,
worlds swarming all around.
Cough,
and you cough up a curiosity;
an idea, intrigue, or animal.
Tiny hairs along the vegetables.
Conspicuous is the smallest thing.
Werewolf angels adorn the passageways, from sign to sign,
where we peered over the shores and into the creatureful seas, --
only to return, with jangling necklaces of words, anxious to loudly undress,
and recover the nakedness of silence; beyond and before all experience.
Innocent, cultureless,
and strangely defensive of the purity that exists
in an ignorance which has become conscious, at least, of itself, --
we sought remote places of escape.
Where light moves independently of objects, in the open air.
Where men do not find, and insist on naming, us.
Where we refuse to be mirrors reflecting mirrors.
Where even wisdom is not wanted,
if it can only be hung like an anchor, or a cross,
around one's neck, and the necks of others.
Where children are left to be children;
to grow into new and original men.
And spirits are left to be spirits;
to incarnate according to their pleasure,
and not our own.
Where nothing is holier, and everything is holy.
Where the heart is an inscrutable law unto itself,
and the mind, a quaint and compelling distraction.
Where nothing means anything for very long,
but meaning is attributed by the heart;
and significance wanes in the abstract,
even as it wanes in sense.
In heaven, as it is on earth.
wise, half-wise, and contradicting one another.
The heart is a quiet plea;
a question which cannot be answered yet,
but patiently insists on being asked.
The body is a wanderer.
The soul is a dream.
Trees are windows onto natureworlds.
Rocks are doorways onto underworlds;
where slithering and creeping intentions evolve.
Here is a laboratory,
where experiment undermines experiment,
and wanting to know is an affliction
that only marks you out.
Now we see from the merest corner.
Now we stand in the center,
perspective in perspective,
worlds swarming all around.
Cough,
and you cough up a curiosity;
an idea, intrigue, or animal.
Tiny hairs along the vegetables.
Conspicuous is the smallest thing.
Werewolf angels adorn the passageways, from sign to sign,
where we peered over the shores and into the creatureful seas, --
only to return, with jangling necklaces of words, anxious to loudly undress,
and recover the nakedness of silence; beyond and before all experience.
Innocent, cultureless,
and strangely defensive of the purity that exists
in an ignorance which has become conscious, at least, of itself, --
we sought remote places of escape.
Where light moves independently of objects, in the open air.
Where men do not find, and insist on naming, us.
Where we refuse to be mirrors reflecting mirrors.
Where even wisdom is not wanted,
if it can only be hung like an anchor, or a cross,
around one's neck, and the necks of others.
Where children are left to be children;
to grow into new and original men.
And spirits are left to be spirits;
to incarnate according to their pleasure,
and not our own.
Where nothing is holier, and everything is holy.
Where the heart is an inscrutable law unto itself,
and the mind, a quaint and compelling distraction.
Where nothing means anything for very long,
but meaning is attributed by the heart;
and significance wanes in the abstract,
even as it wanes in sense.
In heaven, as it is on earth.
Why Aphorisms?
------------------------------
Wisdom is bound by insight,
and insight is bound by idea; --
the idea is bound by the sentence,
the sentence by the paragraph,
the paragraph by the page,
and the page by the book.
------------------------------
Most books are so many cages
within cages, within cages.
If they contain insights,
you will be long in freeing them.
But aphorisms are relatively close
to the liberty of boundless Wisdom.
A solid book of aphorisms
is an exhibition of many truths,
each with just a latch or two to lift.
While there are many who receive
assurances from a great preponderance
of cages, bars, and locks,
I am not of their stamp.
Only fools are edified by exposition.
Philosophers (if I may make an adjustment
on the words and meaning of Samuel Johnson),
"need to be reminded, more often
than they need to be instructed".
Only give me the name of the sovereign; and
I myself will fondly remember, in my own manner,
the castle, the court, and the way to the kingdom.
"In the mountains the shortest way is from peak to peak, but for that route you must have long legs. Aphorisms should be peaks, and those spoken to should be tall and lofty. The atmosphere rare and pure, danger near and the spirit full of a joyful sarcasm: these things go well together. I want to have goblins about me, for I am courageous. Courage which scares away ghosts, creates goblins for itself- it wants to laugh... He who climbs high mountains, laughs at all tragic plays and tragic realities. Brave, unconcerned, mocking, violent- thus wisdom wants us; wisdom is a woman, and always loves only a warrior... And to me also, who appreciates life, the butterflies, and soap-bubbles, and whatever is like them, seem to know most about happiness. To see these light, foolish, pretty, lively little sprites flit about- that moves Zarathustra to tears and songs. I would only believe in a God who could dance. And when I saw my devil, I found him serious, thorough, profound, solemn: he was the spirit of gravity- through him all things fall. Not by wrath, but by laughter, do we kill. Come, let us kill the spirit of gravity! I learned to walk; since then have I let myself run. I learned to fly; since then I do not need to be pushed to move from a spot. Now I am light, now I fly, now I see myself beneath myself, now a god dances through me.- Thus spoke Zarathustra."
~ Friedrich Nietzsche
Wisdom is bound by insight,
and insight is bound by idea; --
the idea is bound by the sentence,
the sentence by the paragraph,
the paragraph by the page,
and the page by the book.
------------------------------
Most books are so many cages
within cages, within cages.
If they contain insights,
you will be long in freeing them.
But aphorisms are relatively close
to the liberty of boundless Wisdom.
A solid book of aphorisms
is an exhibition of many truths,
each with just a latch or two to lift.
While there are many who receive
assurances from a great preponderance
of cages, bars, and locks,
I am not of their stamp.
Only fools are edified by exposition.
Philosophers (if I may make an adjustment
on the words and meaning of Samuel Johnson),
"need to be reminded, more often
than they need to be instructed".
Only give me the name of the sovereign; and
I myself will fondly remember, in my own manner,
the castle, the court, and the way to the kingdom.
"In the mountains the shortest way is from peak to peak, but for that route you must have long legs. Aphorisms should be peaks, and those spoken to should be tall and lofty. The atmosphere rare and pure, danger near and the spirit full of a joyful sarcasm: these things go well together. I want to have goblins about me, for I am courageous. Courage which scares away ghosts, creates goblins for itself- it wants to laugh... He who climbs high mountains, laughs at all tragic plays and tragic realities. Brave, unconcerned, mocking, violent- thus wisdom wants us; wisdom is a woman, and always loves only a warrior... And to me also, who appreciates life, the butterflies, and soap-bubbles, and whatever is like them, seem to know most about happiness. To see these light, foolish, pretty, lively little sprites flit about- that moves Zarathustra to tears and songs. I would only believe in a God who could dance. And when I saw my devil, I found him serious, thorough, profound, solemn: he was the spirit of gravity- through him all things fall. Not by wrath, but by laughter, do we kill. Come, let us kill the spirit of gravity! I learned to walk; since then have I let myself run. I learned to fly; since then I do not need to be pushed to move from a spot. Now I am light, now I fly, now I see myself beneath myself, now a god dances through me.- Thus spoke Zarathustra."
~ Friedrich Nietzsche
Knowing The Place And Knowing The Way
We seem to hear our own perceptions echoed in the words of great thinkers, and are tempted to make light of their gifts. But while we snatch at the bright and dark fruits they bear, in recognition, as they bear them, we scarcely notice the paths they have cut and/or taken us by. Though we may have been to the berry patch before, we may not have known the way there, or back.
What a world of difference exists between knowing the place, and knowing the way; between knowing a truth, and knowing where it fits. It is as if we were to say that we know a man, when we only know of him, having merely gathered some fragmentary and inchoate impressions of him at a distance.
Catching sight of a vague smear on the horizon and asking yourself, "Land?", is not the same as seeing sand and trees delineated, and exclaiming, "Land!" What we apprehend only squintingly, and from a vast distance, is still vastly unknown to us. Nonetheless, whenever the first man cries, "Land!", every man whose suspicions are thereby confirmed will claim the discovery for his own.
What a world of difference exists between knowing the place, and knowing the way; between knowing a truth, and knowing where it fits. It is as if we were to say that we know a man, when we only know of him, having merely gathered some fragmentary and inchoate impressions of him at a distance.
Catching sight of a vague smear on the horizon and asking yourself, "Land?", is not the same as seeing sand and trees delineated, and exclaiming, "Land!" What we apprehend only squintingly, and from a vast distance, is still vastly unknown to us. Nonetheless, whenever the first man cries, "Land!", every man whose suspicions are thereby confirmed will claim the discovery for his own.
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