Merciful Death. How You Love

All The Stories I Have Told You Are Finally As Useless As All Ancient Knowledge Is To Man And To Us. Its Images And Its Poetry Can Be Beautiful; It Can Make Us Shiver With The Recognition Of Things We Have Always Suspected Or Felt. It Can Draw Us Back To Times When The Earth Was New To Man, And Wondrous. But Always We Come Back To The Way The Earth Is Now.

We Live In A World Full Of Accidents Finally In Which On Aesthetic Principles Have A Consistency Of Which We Can Be Sure. Right And Wrong We Will Struggle With Forever Striving To Create And Maintain An Ethical Balance. Right And Wrong We Will Struggle With Forever, Striving To Create And Maintain An Ethical Balance; But The Shimmer Of Summer Rain Under The Street Lamps Or The Great Flashing Glare Of Artillery Against A Night Sky – Such Brutal Beauty Is Beyond Dispute.

He Was So Excited By This Little Bit Of Intelligence That He Might Have Gone Off, Perplexed, Pondering For A Long Time. It Was Like Reading A Wonderful Sentence In A Book, And Not Being Able To Continue Because So Many Possibilities Were Crowding His Mind.

In Spite Of All The Refinements Of Civilization That Conspired To Make Art--the Dizzying Perfection Of The String Quartet Or The Sprawling Grandeur Of Fragonard's Canvases--beauty Was Savage. It Was As Dangerous And Lawless As The Earth Had Been Eons Before Man Had One Single Coherent Thought In His Head Or Wrote Codes Of Conduct On Tablets Of Clay. Beauty Was A Savage Garden.

You Reach Deep Down And Bring Up What Feels Absolutely Authentic To You As You Move Along With The Book, But You Don't Know Everything About It. You Can't.