Grist

Promises are made by the people we believe ourselves to be,
but they are broken or kept by the people we really are.

False monk!
It is not out of humility that you seek to obliterate your story,
and cannot suffer to be a story among stories.

With the self-same tools,
devils tempt and angels teach;
how we make use of them is all.

The instant we stop taking things for granted,
we come up against the soul, --
and can no longer walk down the street.

The child deprived of discipline does not remain a child, but becomes a parasite. Inertia has always this downward tendency. Who does not strive to advance, loses what ground he has gained.

The great truths of the mystics are not for us. We never earned them, and they are not our own. We fool ourselves, if we think such harmony as the saints witnessed exists for us; between the world and ourselves, or between ourselves and God. Those blinding, ecstatic glimpses of theophany amount to nothing, if they do not inspire us to the practice of deep, meditative prayer. No doubt, Providence is forever at work; all things are well ordered, and tending towards perfection. But this order is not in sympathy, nor will it ever sympathize, with personal egos. For the vast majority of us, whom Huxley calls "the nice, ordinary, unregenerate people", the world is a mortar and pestle, grinding our ambitions to dust, and the Word of the Lord is anathema to all we hold dear.

The people of our time have no capacity for the spiritual life. Our struggles take place in the mud, while the higher conflicts are quite beyond us. Self-interest shapes our means and determines our ends. We are spoiled and desensitized, incapable of suffering. Our ideals are petty. Our ambitions feeble, guilty things. We are lost souls; haunting flesh, and rebellious to the light. The world is a possession we cannot relinquish, and the preservation of which costs us all that we are. Truly, we are a wasted people. Nevertheless, we have no more reason to despair than the ancients, seeing that men of all times have found the spiritual life intrinsically unattainable -- at least, by their own merits. There is something about the spiritual life which is always beyond us, always unlived, always potential. If one can never be perfect, neither can one's spiritual practice be perfect. Yet, the grace of God can even make a higher perfection out of our imperfection; in our weakness, He is strong. Compared to the Lord, who is infinite, the efforts of the ablest men are sickly, insipid things. How shall we not have compassion for every individual, regardless of circumstance? The world is an impassable river, in whose current we are all caught and swept against the rocks. From the frailest to the most robust, we are in over our heads. But, then, we were never meant to cross. Only to drown, and learn the vanity of our strength.

Prayer is sincere only when we think we're faking it,
humility is at its peak when we're struck by our pride,
and compassion ignites when we feel ourselves cold.

The biblical verse, "Milk for babes, and meat for strong men," describes and prescribes a kind of moral relativism, which is, yet, not entirely subjective. In rendering milk to the one, and meat to the other, we are not applying a double-standard, at all. Rather, the two are, in fact, analogous. What is good for the goose may be good for the gander, but there is no such likeness between child and mature adult. The very notion of relativity even presupposes an objective standard; while a suit must be tailored differently for differently-sized men, the suit must, nonetheless, be tailored to fit. 

How may our spirits be ignited by the contemplation of the saints? What have we to do with them? Can a candle be lit from the sun? It would melt and be dissolved into atoms before it ever reached that place! And yet, we know by honest reflection that no candle could be lit, if the sun had not first been set ablaze, and warmed the earth into life. Moreover, even suns disperse their light, and are lost to view, like candles, in the limitlessness of space.

Asking the question, "Why is there suffering?" (or "What purpose could the existence of suffering ultimately serve?") does more good for the soul than any answer we are likely to come up with. In fact, the purpose of suffering, if it must have one, may be none other than to provoke the contemplation of a purpose so exalted as to render a justification for suffering. In other words, the contemplation of its purpose IS its purpose. 

Camus was mistaken. Not suicide, but procreation, is the most pressing question confronting philosophers. Death will occur in any case, but life is in our grip.

We take all for granted! How could we not? Look you, how many treasures surround us -- we are, ourselves, composed of treasures, composing treasures, and each enriching one another endlessly. Do you know what it is, to have Being? And eyes to look out of? Companions you can touch? The earth beneath your feet, and gravity enveloping your limbs, holding you to it? The heavens stretching out beyond reckoning in all directions? To laugh, to sing, to dance, or to grieve for one who is lost? To wrap oneself in starlight and reflect upon the nature of a god? All this is ours! All this, felicity inestimable. If only we could see it.

I am pessimistic with respect to mankind, but optimistic with respect to man. I have faith in the individual. Only individuals can rise, paradoxically, by keeping their feet on the ground, and ranking themselves with the crowd. 

I am water funneled between rocks,
pinched and wrenched and routed, --
but I gush out in a bright cacophony
of pleasure and force!

When I was a Determinist, it seemed to me that a person's perspective could only be broadened by making an examination of (what appeared to be) the antecedent causes of any single occurrence. It was, I felt, entirely shortsighted to stop at a man's will, when looking to detect the motive for his choice, or the reason for his motive. Whatever answer one gave, I insisted the question could always be repeated, "Why?" It was plain to me that we could always go deeper, always discover another link in the chain of causation. But I was mistaken. We do not enlarge our perspective, or add to our knowledge of a particular instance, by making an inventory of all that preceded it; on the contrary, we merely narrow our focus to consider the minutiae which is not antecedent to, but, ultimately, contained within, a given moment. The reasoning of determinism is a simple deconstruction. It is a breaking-down of effects into causes, without realizing that the causes are not external motivators, but intrinsic elements within the effects. This realization speaks to the heart of free-will, and the spirit of existentialism. It ends in the conviction that this present moment can never be evaded, mitigated, reduced, or explained away by a scrutiny of the past.

Religious denominations need not be causes for serious division or strife. It is conceivable that boundaries may be respectfully maintained. One does not wear a catcher's mitt to a game of basketball, nor propose the calculating of planetary orbits at a convention of biochemists, nor insist on hearing jazz when one has come to attend an opera. Why, then, should it be thought narrow or malicious, to exclude the Dhammapada from a Jewish, Muslim, Hindu, or Christian service? I propose that anyone may practice, if he so chooses, Christianity in the morning, Sikhism in the afternoon, and Buddhism at night. But I say, nonetheless, that it is bad form to be Christian in a mosque, or Taoist in the Temple of Athena. When in Rome, I am always Catholic.

On Works

Whatever we labor on, we labor on ourselves. An industrious man keeps himself vigorous, disciplined, flexible, and alert. He is the true product of his labors. And while he cannot make a work great, the work, if it demands much of him, can make him great. For it is the masterpiece makes the master; he does not set his seal on it, but it sets its seal on him, as it falls upon him. Truly, if God gives calling to a stone, the stone will come. And if God has called him, it will be seen by his willingness to follow; that is, to place his trust in the Lord; that God will also give him the strength to perform what is asked. Indeed, the work itself will give him the strength to complete it! Do you think Atlas lifts the world because he is strong? I tell you, he is strong because he lifts the world. God does not call a man to great works because the man is great, and worthy of them, but, rather, that by undertaking the works, the man may become so. No mortal was ever prepared to hear the Word of the Lord. Only upon hearing it, do ears become keen and almost equal to the sound.

Philosophy Quotes

"If Napolean had been as intelligent as Spinoza,

he would have lived in a garret and written four books."

~ Anatole France

"Woe to him who in passing should hurl an insult at this gentle and pensive head. He would be punished, as all vulgar souls are punished, by his very vulgarity, and by his incapacity to conceive what is divine. This man, from his granite pedestal, will point out to all men the way of blessedness which he found; and ages hence, the cultivated traveler, passing by this spot, will say in his heart, 'The truest vision ever had of God came, perhaps, here.'"

~ Ernest Renan, in 1882,

at the unveiling of the statue of Spinoza in Hague

 "Life is short, but truth works far and lives long; let us speak the truth."

~ Schopenhauer

"He was absolutely alone, with not a single friend; and between one and none there lies an infinity.'

~ Nietzsche, Schopenhauer As Educator

"But Lou Salome did not return his love; his eyes were too sharp and deep for comfort... Nietzsche fled in despair... In truth, he was naive, enthusiastic, romantic, tender to the point of simplicity; his war against tenderness was an attempt to exorcise a virtue which had led to... a wound that never healed... There was so much of Plato in Nietzsche; he feared that art would unteach men to be hard; being tender-minded, he [was] dangerously close to practicing Christianity... yet, in his quiet hours, he knew... that Parsifal's gentleness was as necessary as Siegfried's strength, and that in some cosmic way these cruel oppositions merged into wholesome creative unities. He liked to think of this "stellar friendship" that still bound him, silently... And when, in a lucid moment of his final insanity, he saw a picture of the long-dead Wagner, he said softly, "Him I loved much.""

~ Will Durant, The Story of Philosophy"

On Antinatalism

"The thought of bringing someone into the world fills me with horror.
I would curse myself if I were a father." ~ Gustave Flaubert

""Every great idea is a tyrant when it first appears." ~ Goethe

Before the beginning, the end.

Although it is everything to us, viewed from some magnificent height of spirit, I imagine, our whole world is no more than another obscure fetish or fad.

Our lesson in coming here was never more than this: Turn around. The signs are everywhere. "Stop" "Wrong Way" "Dead End" But we have so much blind faith that there are no wrong ways, no dead ends, and we just go on. "Surely, the end is just around the corner. Let's breed a few more generations and see where that takes us!"

We are already spirit. We don't become spirit because we enter bodies. On the contrary. We forget ourselves, our true nature, our true home. We are prodigal children, intent on making our own way in the world, while merely squandering our divine inheritance here. Let us return to the family estate, where even the servants have their fill.

I think we are like builders, picking up materials to test their metal. We do not have to accept whatever comes ready to hand. We can discard it, if it seems to be unsuitable for our purposes. Do we want to build corporeal or celestial, sensual or spiritual, mansions? My opinion is that this realm is too heavy and cumbersome for my purposes. If that makes me weak or cowardly or lazy or impatient according to someone else's perspective, so be it. They can think what they will. People said the same about every hermit who ever left society to go into the desert and look for God, -- or every hermit who ever came back to society only to call others out, and suggest another way.

For my part, I believe there is much, much more than what we see down here, and I think it is in our power to decide for ourselves, if we wish to remain down here learning patience (and a million lesser things, perhaps), or if we wish to ascend to realms where there is greater freedom of movement. Whether we have a right to bring souls here is, to my mind, a matter for debate.

It is easy to anticipate the accusations which must fall upon a philosopher wishing to indicate more forcefully a path out of the world. But whenever anyone spoke of going into the mountains, coming down from the mountains, or crossing an ocean, people always replied that it was presumptuousness, restlessness, arrogance, foolhardiness, or some such thing. Nevertheless, it was more likely a spirit of exploration, demanding just as much faith, courage, and imagination as it takes to live in this world.

Notes

Ideas do act.

A fine saying is hard to suppress.

Vanity seeks light, but not too much.

Love lives and breathes forgiveness.

Where there's a beginning, there's a way.

Vice is more often resorted to than intended.

A man with no possessions never meets a thief.

Archimedes would have moved the world, if he stood in perfect love.

I love soft words,
that tease out the heartstrings,
and draw me on to the contemplation of a dream.

I have time to wait for inspiration. I have no time for uninspired works.

Aphorisms are underused. It is the quick stroke makes the cut.

In writers, I prefer a combination of substance and bravado, sincerity and bombast.

Between confidence and indiscretion there is not so much a step -- as a drop;
the man who is loved for his openness one moment, is despised for it the next.

We don't get to know each other. We get to know who we are with each other. When you get to know who someone is with you, you also get to know who you are with them. Loving someone is loving who they are with you, and who you are with them.

It is no paradox, if we must work for our rest. Those who have not striven valiantly in life should find no peaceful sleep in death. The will which never tries itself should go to the grave unsatisfied. It is right, if it causes the soul to toss and turn, and inspires the most ghastly delusions. I think only those who have followed their dreams in this life shall not be pursued by them into the life beyond.

We speak about having faith and being optimistic when, in fact, what we really want to believe in and encourage are our own plans, and not God's plan for us. I'm all in favor of faith and optimism, but it must be well placed. God perhaps wants us to lose faith and become disillusioned with our own plans, in order that we might grow faith and optimism in a higher way. Do we consider ourselves true optimists? Then why not sell all that we have and give to the poor? Or, are we, perhaps, less than optimistic about the consequences of THAT? Yet, we have plenty of optimism when it comes to pursuing our own desires. This is my point. Many who are judged for their less optimistic outlooks are simply unable to experience the same degree of commitment and enthusiasm with respect to their most personal motivations; they are hampered and haunted by a more objective sympathy with the world.

We all deserve to die. Only a saint is half-decent. Why do you think the starets goes on repeating, "Lord, Jesus Christ, have mercy on me,"? He knows he has neglected the poor, the sick, and the dying, the prisoner, the orphan, the widow, and the suicide. What can he ask for, what can he pray for, but mercy? Guilt hangs like a millstone around his neck, forcing him to be humble; to walk closer to the ground.

Laughter is an antidote to excessive decorum, and a necessary foil to our vanity. Irreverence compels us out of ourselves. But is decorum so prevalent in the world that we must have unremitting levity? And while our vanity, no doubt, needs checking, should we not, perhaps, take care so as not to smother our noblest impulses, as well? For humor not only deflates our bloated pretensions, but, all too often, our highest ideals and aspirations. She mistakes banality for humility, and calls the sublime ridiculous. In pursuit of sincerity, she shies away from sentiment; every meaningful emotion is "heavy", to her, and must be made light of. In taking us outside ourselves, she takes us out of the moment. Humor recalls too quickly the notion that all things have their duration, and their end, and, so, seeks to provide a kind of artificial objectivity by anticipating that end, and calling something finished, and fake, while it is still very much in earnest. Emotions are not permitted to linger, to dwell, to dwindle by themselves, but must be "called", like hitting a stop-watch, or blowing a loud horn, the instant one crosses a finish line. Yet even runners do not stop when the race is ended, for they have still some momentum to exhaust, and it would be cruel to set a wall at the finish, for them to smash into. Though it might be good for a laugh.

What could Alexander offer Diogenes, who desired nothing? The latter was a mystic and a prophet, but the former a ravenous wolf, who impaled his victims, and could not be sated with owning the earth. Here we have the classic dichotomy between the man of thought and the man of action. Only, while Alexander in the fable pays homage to Diogenes, in the world as we see it, the active man rather draws the thinker out and forces him to work. Always, the aims are productive, active, outward. And to the thinker, they are a pointless exercise. He has no desire for conquest, but is content to remain within the temperate zones. He has no taste for elaborate or exotic fare, but lives happily on the fruit of the trees. Who will teach him to be "civilized"?

Many recovering addicts say, "I tried to do it myself for years, but it wasn't until I threw up my hands and asked God to make a way, that I began to discover the will and resources to change." And some people scoff, "You did it yourself. Don't substitute one addiction for another; faith is not sobriety." But we have to recognize our powerlessness before we can call upon a deeper level of power in ourselves -- that is "the first step", yes? As for faith, I think it's just a matter of personal taste or preference, whether or not we refer to this deeper power as "God".

Faith is a value judgment, and not open to debate. Either you consider some things worthy of being called "sacred" (or "holy" or "divine"), or you do not. To cynics, everything in life is prosaic, and exalted language is for less sober types. They might call something "miraculous" in a moment of passion, but they'll be quick to clarify their meaning so as to avoid misunderstandings. "No, no, of course nothing is miraculous." Personally, I feel very sorry for anyone who cannot find a place for words like "sacred", "miraculous", or "reverence" in describing their experience of the world.

The Return

Solomon Thrust stood huddled under the portico, squeezing his collars together at the throat, squinting through the mad, summer rain. An instant later and it subsided. The sun shone glossy on the pavement as sparkling tributaries poured away into the gutters and were gone. Solomon could clearly see now, the priest had pulled up and was already being helped from his car by two men, one of whom was careful to hold up a black umbrella over the old father's head at all times. The priest said something to him, and the man, seeing that the rain had stopped, closed up the umbrella and stuffed it in his coat.

They made their way over towards the door where Solomon stood. Only the priest was smiling.

"Fine day, after all," he said, with a friendly nod.

"For a funeral," said Solomon.

"Yes, that's right. I suppose a bit of solemnity is in order, after all. But it is nice, isn't it, to see the sun, after what began as such a dismal morning. Oh, look, the family has arrived. Well, it won't be long now."

"Nope. Should have him in the ground by ten o'clock, easy."

"Well that's not what I -- ," the priest now gave him a closer, more suspicious look.

"Of course, not," said Solomon, "Why don't you go ahead and find a seat, Father. I imagine the ceremony is about to begin."

"Oh, but I'm here to perform the rites, you know. After all, --"

"I'm just teasing, Father. After all, a little levity," he winked.

By now the priest's suspicions were more than confirmed. The man was not right.

"There's the boy's mother, now," said Solomon, indicating a large, stout woman standing just behind a large wreath, as though trying to remain obscured from view. Her eyes had been scrubbed raw. It was clear that her suffering was beyond tears.

"I should go to her," said the priest, almost to himself.

"You think?"

Solomon watched as the priest shook the mother's hand and patted her on the back. You could see he intended to embrace her, but, having hesitated, thought better of it, and gave her, instead, his already outstretched hand. She grabbed it like it would fall to the floor in less than a second, and rushed it to her breast. She held it there and smiled at him; a grim, miserable, pleading grin.

"He's in heaven, now. He's in heaven, Father," she whimpered desperately.

"Indeed, he is. Indeed, he is," the old man reassured her. "Singing with the angels."

"He always liked to sing."

"Singing and carrying on. Why, he's probably out riding his bike through the clouds, at this very moment, having a gay old time, while we make such a fuss over him down here."

"You think so, Father?"

"Absolutely!"

"He always liked to ride his bike."

"Well, now he can ride it up and down and all around, can't he? Yes, sir. He can ride his bike in any direction he pleases, yes he can. Up, down, and all around, I say. No roads in heaven, just open sky."

The priest was gazing into the distance, as if really seeing what he spoke of.

"Oh, I know you must be right, Father. You must be."

"That's it. Cheer up. Now let's remember him as he was. A happy boy."

"Oh, yes. He was a happy boy."

"A boy who loved and kept animals, am I right?"

"Oh, yes, Father. He loved and kept them. He had quite the collection, let me tell you. Jars all over his room. Frogs and lizards and bugs and snakes. You name it! He even brought home stray dogs and cats, though they never hung around much. I suppose he must have patched them up and sent them on their way."

"Well, that's just the kind of Christian boy he was," said the priest.

Still under the portico, rolling himself a cigarette, Solomon pulled the door closed, so as not to overhear any more of their conversation. He turned to look at the little boy who was sitting on the steps just a foot away.

"You never bothered to poke holes in those jars, so the poor creatures could breathe, did you? And what ever did happen to those stray dogs and cats," asked Solomon, licking the cigarette, twisting it up, and fitting it behind his ear.

The boy turned to look at him, then he looked all around, then back up at him. Solomon wasn't looking at him, just gazing rather absently over the grass at something across the street.

"Are you talking to me," he asked the man.

"Well, I ain't talkin' to myself."

"You can see me? Hear me?"

"Sure can."

"But nobody else can."

"Better get used to that, kid."

"What do you mean? Why can't they see me? What's going on?"

"You died, remember? You fell in the creek."

"No, I - what? I - this is a dream. A nightmare, I mean."

"You don't remember falling in?

"I never - What are you talking about?"

"Tell me what happened to the animals, Kenny."

"I - the animals? I don't remember."

"You strangled them, didn't you?"

"I - what?"

"Drowned them in the tub. Held them under by the necks."

"I - I wanted to see," said the boy.

"Yeah?" Solomon looked directly at him for the first time. The man's pupils were as red as burning coals. In fact, if you looked closely enough, it was just possible to see that they were, in fact, burning coals.

"What did you see?"

"I -"

They were silent for a few moments.

"Your eyes...," began the boy.

"Nevermind my eyes. You'll know soon enough what they see. First, I want you to tell me what you saw. I think you can remember just fine."

"I don't want to remember," said the child.

"Why not? It was the most fun you ever had."

"I drowned them, yes. But -"

"You strangled them. You held them under as they struggled."

"Yes, I remember now, but -"

"You tied them into garbage bags full of rocks and dropped them in the creek."

"I dropped them, yes, but-"

"Over the side of the bridge. And you sang a song."

"I did, yes, but-"

"You always did like to sing."

"You don't understand."

"What was the name of the song?"

"The song? I don't - I don't remember."

"But you do. Of course you do. The song. Your favorite song."

"I don't - I can't remember."

"Come, I'll sing it for you."

"Please don't."

Solomon cleared his throat. He was really enjoying this. But, then, he always loved his job.

"'Hush little baby, don't say a word.'"

"Stop it!" the boy shouted, springing up from the steps.

"Do you remember what happened to the baby? Your little sister?"

"She - she fell in."

"She followed you. She saw what you did. She screamed."

"I -"

"You covered her mouth. You filled it with pine needles, dirt, and dead leaves."

"I told her not to scream. I told her."

 "That's right, you remember now. She choked to death."

"I did, I know. But you don't understand."

"And then you dumped her over the side, just like the animals."

"The animals..." recalled the boy, absently.

"The dogs and cats."

"I killed them."

"Yes, you did."

"And I killed her."

"And then you fell in, too, didn't you?"

"I slipped. My foot got twisted and I fell."

"You died."

"I - Are you sure?"

Solomon smiled.

"But it's not what you think," the boy protested. "I was - Something was wrong with me. My mind was sick or something. I feel different now. Really. I don't know why I wanted to do those bad things, I really don't. I don't feel that way any more."

"Are you sorry?"

"I am. I'm so sorry. I wish I could go back and change everything."

"Can't do that, kid."

"No, I guess not. But what happens now?"

"Why don't you go find a good seat? Your funeral's about to begin."

"My funeral? What about..."

"Don't worry, kid. It's just like this for a while. First, it takes a little time to remember. Then, once you remember, you can start to forget. That takes time, too. But you're already past the remembering part. So don't sweat it. You did good."

"I don't understand. Why was I sick? Why did I do those things?"

"That's just what happens down there, kid."

"Well, then, why did I go down there?"

"Beats me. I guess you thought you were hot shit, with your free will."

"Huh?"

"Not as free as you thought you were, though, eh?"

"Um -"

"Take my advice, kid. Earth is overrated. Try staying up here for a while."

"Up here? But this is my house."

Suddenly, house and portico, steps and door, and the whole neighborhood were pulled right out from under them and instantly lost from view. They tumbled in space for a minute or two.

"Isn't this nice,' asked Solomon.

"It's pretty cool," said the kid.

"See that?" Solomon was pointing to some brilliant, emerald and pink constellation in the distance. "They'll take care of you there. Just keep on that way and don't look back. You'll be fine."

"What about you?"

"I've got work to do, kid. You lost souls can't find your way back here on your own, you know."

And he swiftly disappeared.

But Kenny kept on, as he was told, tumbling towards the magnificent constellation. As he grew closer, it seemed to expand and become increasingly immense. A feeling of unimaginable love began to permeate his being, as if he were suddenly coming in from the cold, to sit by a warm fireside. Though he had never even realized how cold and brutal his former environment had been, he was quick to appreciate the contrast. This place was unfamiliar, and, yet, somehow, this was home.

A moment later, and he began to remember.

This had always been home.

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.