Monday, September 20, 2010

Mark Twain's "Mysterious Stranger"

“In a little while you will be alone in shoreless space, to wander its limitless solitudes without friend or comrade forever—for you will remain a thought, the only existent thought, and by your nature inextinguishable, indestructible. But I, your poor servant, have revealed you to yourself and set you free. Dream other dreams, and better!”

“Strange! that you should not have suspected years ago - centuries, ages, eons, ago! - for you have existed, companionless, through all the eternities.”

“Strange, indeed, that you should not have suspected that your universe and its contents were only dreams, visions, fiction! Strange, because they are so frankly and hysterically insane - like all dreams: a God who could make good children as easily as bad, yet preferred to make bad ones; who could have made every one of them happy, yet never made a single happy one; who made them prize their bitter life, yet stingily cut it short; who gave his angels eternal happiness unearned, yet required his other children to earn it; who gave his angels painless lives, yet cursed his other children with biting miseries and maladies of mind and body; who mouths justice and invented hell - mouths mercy and invented hell - mouths Golden Rules, and forgiveness multiplied by seventy times seven, and invented hell; who mouths morals to other people and has none himself; who frowns upon crimes, yet commits them all; who created man without invitation, then tries to shuffle the responsibility for man’s acts upon man, instead of honorably placing it where it belongs, upon himself; and finally, with altogether divine obtuseness, invites this poor, abused slave to worship him!” …

“You perceive, now, that these things are all impossible except in a dream. You perceive that they are pure and puerile insanities, the silly creations of an imagination that is not conscious of its freaks - in a word, that they are a dream, and you the maker of it. The dream-marks are all present; you should have recognized them earlier.”

“It is true, that which I have revealed to you; there is no God, no universe, no human race, no earthly life, no heaven, no hell. It is all a dream - a grotesque and foolish dream. Nothing exists but you. And you are but a thought - a vagrant thought, a useless thought, a homeless thought, wandering forlorn among the empty eternities!” -- Mark Twain in Mysterious Stranger

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

The Living Language As Agent of Ascension by Steve Venright

A thirst for the infinite. A longing for the absolute. Lautreamont banging ou sentences on the keys of a piano, the eyes of Maldoror blazing in his head. Rimbaud and his sad ecstatic synaethesia; the poet as seer in the unchaining of the senses. Christopher Smart, again, and that virtuous multi-talented cat of his, Jeoffry, the angeltiger; the two of them channeling ontological thunder from a god much holier than the usual bearded sourpusses propped up on clouds by guilty Western romantics. Leonora Carrington in her hospital prison, down below everything in this world, below rape and war, below incarcerated love, reflecting Twentieth Century hell in shards of exploded-mind - a sorceress in the underworld who heals herself and emerges triumphant and beautiful alchemist. Baudelaire and his hospital prison where the soul cries to be "Anywhere! Just as long as it is out of the world!" John Uri Lloyd's alchemical hollow earth odyssey. Michael Dean's transcendent-textual gardens and lawns. The poignant Terra erotica of Nabokov as revealed in Ada. Joyce's ultramythic polyverse and its endless recorso. Dewdney's concordant proviso ascendant. Nichol's alphabetic hagiography. The transdimensional emancipation pirates of Burroughs. Coleridge's pleasure dome. Nerval's ivory tower. A lust for freedom and ascent.

From Spiral Agitator

Saturday, September 4, 2010

Black Metal For Cuddling? Yeeeaaaahhh....

It's nice to know that after a hard day of immolating and eviscerating with the black hordes, you can come home, curl up in a pile of warm skulls and just soak in the sweet, eternal necrotic bleakness of it all with this non-metal black metal mix from the fine post-human types over at Dublab. Hail Satin!

Wednesday, September 1, 2010

Art-Chance-Risks (Excerpts) by Odysseus Elytis

There are, in a human life, moments that, by a sole, hasty, inconceivable opening and shutting, show the world around us washed in a strange light and revealed in another - could it be its real? - countenance, one seen for the very first time. There are moments when objects and facts abandon their orbit to shine with a different meaning and a different destination; moments when man suddenly sees himself walking on paths he has never chosen, under boulevards he cannot recognize, beside people standing to the full height of his own manifest emotions, people who become the friends, his friends, such as he always wished existed, expecting him there, at a bitter corner of his life. No foreign element, no extrasensal presence comes to justify this strange turn that the world assumes at moments such as these. Simple, earthly, human, it is the same things, the same situations, presenting themselves in a second condition, more real than the first, a condition we would have to distinguish by calling it "surreal."

In an era when any intellectual movement necessarily proceeds from a basis of incessant actions and reactions, comparative study alone is in a position to yield significant results. The retrospective view of the pulse pertinent to a historic epoch, the resurrection of a past longing, the pattern assumed by the briefly recurring chilly breeze of a youth in revolt, all the disputes, even the most don quixotesque ones, restored to the proscenium, all the naive or hateful stances, all the big words, are not the vainest rudimentsm of a critique; at least of a critique that purports to conceive its topic, not solely by intellectual exercise, but also by emotional contact, by a biological, almost bodily, assertion. Nothing could uncover more completely the causes of surrealism's success with our generation, justifying our adherence to that movement despite and beyond personal misgivings, than the careful recounting of all - even the most minute - pulsations undergone by our bodily and psychic organism during the long, dictatorial imposition of a disastrous state of affairs: mechanization, petty bourgeois-ism, self-satisfaction, distortion of all moral concepts, rationalization.

Yet it is now time to deal with that which remained in the history of poetry under the heading "automatic writing." There is no definition that may boast of its self-suffiency, and action almost always discourgaes verbal precision; it deforms, forsakes, exceeds the framework that tends to immobilize it. In theory, the unhindered recording of psychic associations is up to everyone, for everyone contains a hollow flow of image-bearing words when awake, and administers a disinterested action of the world when asleep. However, the question remains: to what extent is such a peculiar incarnation really feasible? And if it is, why should it also be desirable? How could beauty and human emancipation, these twin aspirations of Lyricism, be served by it?

Proud rebels as they were, those present at the birth of surrealism took care to reinforce it with dictums that would exclude inconsistency effectively and unfailingly. They said:

- Beauty does not seem necessary to us.

- There is in the mind a point at which all contradictions are resolved.

- The poet does not impose his own voice but conveys the voice that exists always and resounds for all.

- A deepest understanding of dream and of its meaning imposes the transformation of the world.

- Aesthetics is not the viewpoint of our critique.

- Poetry must be made by all, not by one.

After all that, would not the defense of certain ideals that represent nothing to others appear pointless? As for me, I know another path, and I shall take it without caring too much about the commotion I may cause to some. The solitary walker's whistle in the dark does not always signify fear.

At a time when the first bunch of European surrealists met with general disapproval on all sides, I, alone in my modest room in Athens, was accompanying their action with a stubborn admiration that I have never since renounced, nor do I intend to. Behind the rages, exaggerations, blasphemies, and naivetes that so shocked the bourgeois at the time, I saw neither a fashion nor the advertised vanity of a School. I left those clumsy accounts to many critics, both here and abroad, who thereby washed their hands of the whole business, but also turned their backs in relief on everything that might bear to them the painful reminiscence of profound truths, long concealed with special care.

Rejection of all illusions, unimpeded knowledge and taste of all the nuclei of life, thirst for a free morality, emotional evaluation of the world, faith in the absolute power of the spirit - those were the most distant, but also the most constant, ridges of the surrealist horizon I contemplated. One day, when those are certified by history, we shall be able to see who it was that waged war on two fronts, liberating art from suffocating rationalism, infertile and static idealism, and directions from above. Not one surrealist ever thought of immobilizing life. The same mouths from which the above proud phrases emerged also emitted others, whose sole aim was to consolidate the capacity for evolution and readjustment of a theory destined by its very nature to always turn into action - irrespective of whether it will be backed by a faction, a School, a slogan of the day.

Careful study of each surrealist teaching may easily uncover the secret of its always dual significance, just as a confrontation in good faith with each of its practical applications will readily grant the researcher the revelation of its two - always two - sides. Absolute expression, as a polemical necessity of a particular historic moment, justifies the one side, the most ephemeral but also most persuasive, whose intransigence conceals another side, destined for a more permanent life.

If, on the one hand, automatic writing was revelaed under the colors of the unleashed unconscious, realizing itself outside personal will and intolerant of aesthetic judgment, on the other hand it declared the poet's innermost desire to force inspiration (the latter being at once chance and excessive sensibility) into a ruthless and swift advance beyond all moral, social, or aesthetic obstacles. Nothing but true spirituality is contained in this intention, whereby human, solely human, morality overthrows its bourgeois idol. Habit, that which extinguishes the poet's innate inclination to set foot where no one else has been before, was struck down along with the world's dullest portion, the one most worn out by the rust of the commonplace. It was a matter of releasing man from the fear that always stopped him before, what a false education had led him to regard as "anti-aesthetic," "immoral," "absurd," "harmful." For the proportion of human experience that had up to then been excluded from poetry, and which was without a doubt fully entitled to expression, all those passionate human emotions, the most terrible desires, had been waiting impatiently for too long before all kinds of prohibitive signals, those that a specific society, along with its art, had hung over useless and conventional frontiers.

Speech, at once a transmitter and a receiver of life, this time marched forward. The public's surprise upon the sensitive and indeterminate point of transformation was so intense that, even before realizing it, the virgin expression was forced to spell out its first sentence, while automatic writing - repulsing calculation and restoring imagination to its very source - became its best instrument.

Now, if not all people were capable of using this instrument as the theory had promised, that was certainly because they did not all possess the same power of repelling calculation by neutralizing the defense of their reason, just as they do not all possess the same psychic overflow and quality of imagination. Something similar happens with the flucuations of poetic wealth that we may come across in a text written by different people, or by the same person over several distinct moments. Yet, as soon as some begin to outshine others, thanks to their special qualities, the concept "poet" becomes meaningful again. The analyst's good faith henceforth ought to search and locate that which - from the viewpoint of general art theory - is the sole profit that automatic writing brought to the affairs of lyrical poetry.

Philosophically speaking, one could argue, with Roland de Reneville, that thought, in its auspicious ride across fields of such absolute freedom, manages to conceive at an incredible speed all, even the least suspected, relations between things, so convincingly as to signal the revelation of their unity. And also this, which is even more important: that, in order to cover the entire circle of the spirit, the right way is not necessarily to expand, thanks to intensive concentration, the point of the consciousness that lies at its center, as "Pure" poetry would have it; we can also abolish it, which is equivalent to placing it, at any moment, on any point of the psychic circle, as surrealism maintained. Yet the movement of this thought, drunk with itself, has also given us (de facto, as one might say) certain other results, which may show us, if translated into points of our recognizable intellectual function, the role played in the revelation of the perpetual becoming of life by the lightning-like speed of thought, as it found a way of being effected in the heat of automatic writing. That heat, which is at bottom an overstrain of the will to life, and which made Professor Gaston Bachelard cry: "L'ardeur est un temps, ce n'est pas un chaleur [Ardor is a time, it is not a warmth]." gives a truly new dimension to the meaning of time.

Having instantaneously taken incredible distances in its stride, poetic metaphor ended up expressing the actual physignomy of things upon their very birth. And as a plant about to bloom never offers, even to the most patient observer, the phenomenon of its growth, while, if filmed and projected at a high speed, it reveals to us, compressed within a few seconds, the history of dozens of its hours, so it is that any secret, a secret of the world that logical surveillance cannot conceive, is set into motion by falling within the space of human emotion, and thus appears, visible, like a new poetic image, within a few seconds. So, even if this instrument is never again put into action, it is enough that it has opened our eyes to three fundamental truths: the absolute reality of the spirit, the incessant transformation of life within its own movement, and the existence of disinterested relations between the elements of the world, relations that not only put an end to a quasi-slavish conception of life, but also offer to lyrical confession the chance of achieving a more accurate and integral formulation.

Eventually, it became evident that a different order of the world, one governed by sensibility, reigned in each emotion; and that, in order to express emotion more directly, one was entitled, indeed, obliged, to pursue the combinations of words proper to this new order, the images proper to a bliss of fantasy. A new kind of psychic function was born out of the experience of automatic writing. The latter equipped, not only the surrealist, the poet, once and for all, with the possibility of being realized directly and essentially, by means of what I have once named the transparence of emotion. Iam referring to the courage of attempting the most improbable marriages between the elements of the world, knowing - and here is where the entire supremacy of Poetry over Science may lie - that two simple things, however humble in their everyday function, may, by exiting their slavish orbit and developing a sudden affinity, approach the dramatic human enigma through the entire weight of our substance. From now on, whatever the youngest poets may do or think, however, they may realize themselves, they will naturally possess a new way of interpreting the world and must therefore acknowledge that they operate within fields conquered by surrealism; and also, that it would not be vain if they took the trouble, before putting its orders aside, to turn them around and see their permanent side, to hear, behind the timely, their timeless message.

They would then see that behind the declaration "poetry must be made by all, not by one" lay the abolition of the theocratic conception of the poet's nature and destination; behind the words "beauty does not seem necessary to us" lay the replacement of the established notion of beauty by a new one; behind the view that "the dream must announce the transformation of the world' lay the certainty that the artist must impose a new order on the elements offered by the perceptible world; finally, behind the utterance "there is a point of the mind where all contradictions are resolved" lay the faith in surreality and, through it, in the desired unity of all things.

It is not a conservative tendency that dictates the above reflections; neither is it my purpose here to soften a rough line or blunt a protruding edge on the curious surrealist edifice. I only wished, even by recourse to exaggeration, to highlight some of the scattered snatches that this modern activity succeeded, without doubt, in craving on the large body of poetry. And if it is best for a poet to give only a personal impression of a long-lasting experience, I shall only say, on the subject of automatic writing, that my first impression of it resembles strongly the expression of gratitude felt by man toward the wealth, both inner and outer, that he was given to take advantage of; in other words, the practical recognition of the adequacy of this world, in the infinite combinations of its goods.

I have already had the opportunity to note, a propos of painting, and in particular of artists such as the douanier Rousseau or the fustanella-wearing Theophilos, whose work was motivated solely by the passion of plastic expression, and who transubstantiated the spirit and the material object into one and the same artistic event, how deeply imbued they were by that sacred sensation of the infinite natural wealth within their works.

By transposing systematically this kind of disposition onto the mind, the modern poet and artists (who attempted to reach by the opposite route that pure psychic condition of primitive man before the spectacle of life and nature), walked along a common path, thereby creating works are more or less as follows:

(1) The external and internal world, in their infinite combinations, constitute a reality, whose motherland is the mind.

(2) The concept of illegality does not exist in the district of the mind.

(3) Poetry expresses directly the mind, whose circumference is incredibly longer than that of consciousness.

(4) A considerable part of life is unable to find its expression in that area of consciousness.

(5) The cooperation of all the world's elements is possible, probable, and desirable.

(6) Objects must be incorporated in the necessity of human desires.

(7) The emotional assessment of the world assigns a different content to the concept of life; in fact, it restores the source of human freedom at the center of humanity.

In the spring of 1935, with the help of Andreas Embrikos - who also had eagerly placed his large library at my disposal - I slowly, and somewhat awkwardly at first, became the astonished spectator of a strange world that sprang from within me, even without my fully realizing it. How many times, sitting in the cosy apartment on Queen Sophia Avenue, smoking innumerable cigarettes and surrounded by the paintings of Max Ernst, Oscar Dominguez and Yves Tanguy, or, at other times, in some relatives' villa in Lesbos, facing the sea and the Eastern mountains, we wrote a multitude of poems and other texts within five or ten minutes, poems and texts of which we were later accused by writers and critics of having supposedly spent several days of hard intellectual labor! A few days earlier, with a young painter friend of mine, we had tried for the first time to visit the unpredictable in the form of a game, giving each other questions and answers whose content we mutually ignored. The basis of this game concealed, not merely the same mechanism, but also something else that was of particular value to the novice, in helping abolish resistance. I remember that, on a number of cases, the result was spot-on as to the associative cohesion and individual originality of images.

Q.- What is the color red?
A.- A slap-ful of poppies!
Q.- What is glory?
A.- A mountain to be watched by the centuries!
Q.- What is a crysanthemum?
A.- A good-hearted day in the glass.
Q.- What are the Pleiades?
A.- The poets' hiding place.
Q.- What is poetry?
A.- Fornication ad infinitum.
Q.- What is the eagle?
A.- That which we place high above our head.
Q.- What are the four seasons of the year?
A.- A peacock, a calandra, and two great seas.

Or, again, in a variation of the same game:

- When the bows of the day are untied
- The arbute berries shout their name out loud.
- When the goby muddies its waters
- The cat's flag changes three colors
- When the girl catched a May-bug
- The noon's spinning top shines inside her head.
- If we had no young children
- Our fields would be orphans.
- If we were content with the cherry tree's buzz
- The one the two the three would refresh us.
- If Chance unloaded carobs
- A thousand sailboats would be crossing the oceans.

No one will be justified in laughing, in saying that these are not serious things but games. Apart from the fact that there is no harm in playing from time to time, the truth is that the principle concealed in these games is very serious indeed: they knock on the door of the Unknown, entrust the value of Chance, create a new perspective, untie the poet's fingers, kept for so long apart from the wealth of the world of assimilation. Now, returning to my forgotten notebooks, which contain about a hundred poems, divided into series, I get lost in a multitude of titles, which I enjoy even today, on account of their chromatic quality, or even - why not? - their very prodigality. In some of them, the image attains an objective value: Disappointment below zero. The bay and its pulse. Unhooking of summer hour. Theneighbouring lighthouse as a lenient dive. Assisted by daffodils. Pastoral ark. In the interior of the shiver. Warm fold construction of woman. Replacement of destiny. Azure waste. Like a foliage beside her. Ms. Aprils. Angelousa. On the head of a NW wind. Elsewhere, I discern titles full of humor, with a disposition for irony or caricature: Husbands in chiaroscuro. The proverbial r. On the superfluity of everyday existence. In the refreshments room of illegal delight. Finally, there are other titles in which the unpredictable, the magical reign supreme: 789 B.C. Aerodynamic. The stones of noise. The historical crutches. At the haven of our little desires. Journal of the simplest midday. The two-topped ledger. Color collection. Clever outlet feather of matter. Alsing.

Before this kind of orchid, more than a few will halt, overtaken by a sense of comedy or futility. "In the refreshments room of illegal delight." - truly, what a silly title to those who were never granted the pleasure of visiting it and tasting its strong drinks! How stupid these titles are, to all those stupid enough to have never dared enter the interior of the shiver, to pass by the pastoral arks on the head of a NW wind, or in the company of Ms Aprils, to succeed, in an azure waste, or in unhooking the summer hour, in throwing the stones of noise, while writing a journal - the journal of the simplest midday!

Well, then, those too shy of entering a world that represents the mystery of their own creation by a poetic, that is, a vital act, had better not proceed to texts from which all aesthetic concern has been exiled and through which all the education heretofore obtained will be subjected to trial and strife. My first texts are very much reminiscent of Embirikos's. This is not only due to the "literary" language, which should only be expected to expand in an area devoid of will, but also to the difficulty I had in repelling the introduction of exterior impressions, that is, let myself free to train of phrasal associations. Here is an example:

At the bottom of whimpers beaches grow to be disastrous precipes, where virgins naked from the waist up walk on tiptoe. How we dived into these blue flakes, how we passed through these deep-colored films, how we plucked the heads with their celebratory nods, we do not know, nobody knows, except perhaps the headache of a stork raised by the other seas. Once more silence follows silence. Colossi of trees reduce the vision nestling like a warm animal on the pitchforks of their fairy tales. Flying-flashes of lightning and thundering leaps fill our palm with a rainy smell.

The knots of joys are panting and from each one's throat unfolds a white-blonde falsehood.

-----------------------------------("The neighbouring lighthouse as a lenient dive")

There would follow just a few sentences from other texts, whose complete transcription here would be tiresome:

In the final analysis, roses are nothing but tears. Nothing but the whistle of the leaving train and the breach of a promise. Sorrow, too, is nothing but an evening leaning on April.
-----("Disappointment below zero")

The sun would be most delighted to offer his seat but a laughter charms him by tracing a curve that entertains foliages. It supervises his route. He melts of immortality and takes into his cradle the whole vegetation that has become a landscape and the whole landscape that was created after the image of his own emotions.
-----("789 B.C.")

On the 23d kilometer you stopped and inflamed my ears. For a long while afterward I was running (now without you by my side) and hearing your voice that said: me, I love the sun! the sun!

Yet it is not only the influence of Andreas Embirikos, but also that of Nikitas Randos that becomes apparent in my early attempts. It would not be out of place here to copy some excerpts from the series 14 agile poems:

The day turned her face immense heliotrope
And suddenly I found myself on the rear of so many horizons
Like her I would like to be the pride of light
Not to yield anymore to the cup-bearers of wishes
I would especially like each night-reveler to be my opponent
Yet his alliance already disarms me
Forcing me to imagine phials of many colors
In the form of the mouth of liquid girls a wreath
Made of the victories and defeats of the imprisoned time.

In the erotic shadow in the weedy devotion of our two joined hands
And beyond the agility of paths that appropriate all steps
Beside the fire's easy prey and the touch of sunrise
I annoint emotion with time to render it deathly
I fornicate with inspiration to endure for infinity.

All the butterflies inversely proportionate to the colors of flowers
Kidnap my calmness on asymmetric circles
Try it on while time flows carelessly
Amid its agile osiers
Those that have sometimes trained me to adjust to the world
To what answers with no
When the eyelids of chance liberate silence once and for all.

The alarm clocks of pigeon houses amid your despairs
And the fountains of crysanthemums in the raisings of thoughts that take
--your head
So that time is not wrapped in any wish
That insects feel the earth
And that the sky's back derives pleasure from vision
That falcons baptized by silence clang in magnanimity
The diffused meaning of your old small worlds.

The second part of this period comes to an end with poems written a little later, at the beginning of 1936. In these, a certain hint of aesthetic care is evident:


Sensitive as the leg of a girl
Searching for her canaries
Time blows amid geraniums in the yard
Her eternal interview is an ocean

Extracted from ivies
From the mountain of dew
It enters woman
And she caresses the uncombed wind
She runs beside it while stripping naked
So that it does not fall upon her dawn
To bear the fingerprints of destiny

The gaze alone lays down the flowerbeds
Love holds her hand up high
Even above her breast
Wet nurses of so many dreams
And on that very point her lovers die


On the twigs of dew that lives out its secrets
The peacocks of our rays open
Ears of wheat
Dreams of many hours
And the order of words when traced
Like a doves' orbit gleaming with ignorance.

The last automatic texts I wrote, more regular in their linguistic expression and almost thoroughly deprived of foreign influences, are, I believe, those that highlight more clearly my authentic face. The three poems that follow are the only ones I managed to save.


As the melancholic voice came out of the well
The white buzzard and the visible sign of the willow
Hours changed the dresses at the garden's corner
The deepest-colored bird asked of berries and ether
Time quarter to six carnations were pleased
One - could not but vanish in the big girl's breast
Another - washed in the water became a nightingale
But the poor man who was holding the wire
Had now lost his hands - a big insect was trimmed
The feast passed by replete with fire
It was a village woman living on butterflies
A fat shepherd full of snow
And a rain-watch with no shadow...
Those who loved the sky's depths are still gazing
And it is truly worth wondering at these snails
Perhaps girls are not visible from the coast
The rainbow is the ease of seeing dreams
Even two days ago little children saw them
The begonias and fruits of the nearby window
Ah how beautiful peacocks are
They cry - and the day unfolds in bliss
You can just about discern the small carriages on the seabed
Even when a violet stays open at sunset
The world leaves with a complaint like a brook
And once again I see my girl I loved so much...

Inside the grass calmness is visible
Only the gardener gets scared and whispers
"Quiet kids - let no clouds perceive us..."


So this year too the wood of swallows smelled
Of small talk in churches
The day stood at the threshold - her apron swollen by mulberries
Even with nothing inside you can feel their sweetness
And the sea of sun in the large bedrooms
There you see the water bubbles play on the ceiling
There you lay your pillow and listen to those weeping...

Such big eyes how can they have no room for
The sky's mushrooms - they will all leave fast
And the hair on rocks and windmills
Will begin to blow and clang
A ship coming from afar - entered the roofed balcony
It smells of green soap and mopped floor
Where to hide - it is better to scream
For people to gather everywhere for one to hang one's life - thus
Like a clean cloth in the sun by two pegs.


The windows were shining with bee's joy
Around the meal children were sitting
On the street innocent talk flew from a fountain
Finches deafened the highest branches
"Why children what is it you want so early in the world"
Springtime is not adorned with rains alone
A light wind enters from the iron doors
On the upper part of town shutters are creaking
"Ia...iow...eeeh... - and the echo: owowow...eeeh..."
Passengers opposite a blue peninsula
Came from the Pleiades asking for bread
So let the river flow some more
Let the sea stir some more
Let falcons ascend the enormous mountains
Outside coaches are passing singing in the south wind's mist
The coachmen stand and shout
"Today children today."
At that moment a carnation explodes in the wind
Many weep and converse
Others go silently and lay grass on the ground
So the sun may finally sleep
So the sun may finally sleep.

Techne-Tyche-Tolme, no others, only those three illustrious words (but are they words?) which, with the deep-green ink of grass, the deep-red ink of love, and the deep-blue ink of the sea, adorned the pages of a year, if not the inauguration of a youth. The reduction of truth to a simple, to a profound birth of a living organism, was its sole philosophy. Truly, nothing concerned me more in mid-35 than a vigorous, healthy existence, which might freely extend to the ultimate extremes of a catholic freedom. All else that was to come, of course, came later...


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