Our Ignorance Allowed Us To

The Butterfly's Attractiveness Derives Not Only From Colors And Symmetry: Deeper Motives Contribute To It. We Would Not Think Them So Beautiful If They Did Not Fly, Or If They Flew Straight And Briskly Like Bees, Or If They Stung, Or Above All If They Did Not Enact The Perturbing Mystery Of Metamorphosis: The Latter Assumes In Our Eyes The Value Of A Badly Decoded Message, A Symbol, A Sign.

Is Anything Sadder Than A Trainthat Leaves When It's Supposed To,that Has Only One Voice,only One Route?there's Nothing Sadder.except Perhaps A Cart Horse,shut Between Two Shaftsand Unable Even To Look Sideways.

This Cell Belongs To A Brain, And It Is My Brain, The Brain Of Me Who Is Writing; And The Cell In Question, And Within It The Atom In Question, Is In Charge Of My Writing, In A Gigantic Minuscule Game Which Nobody Has Yet Described. It Is That Which At This Instant, Issuing Out Of A Labyrinthine Tangle Of Yeses And Nos, Makes My Hand Run Along A Certain Path On The Paper, Mark It With These Volutes That Are Signs: A Double Snap, Up And Down, Between Two Levels Of Energy, Guides This Hand Of Mine To Impress On The Paper This Dot, Here, This One.

Perhaps One Cannot, What Is More One Must Not, Understand What Happened, Because To Understand [the Holocaust] Is Almost To Justify...no Normal Human Being Will Ever Be Able To Identify With Hitler, Himmler, Goebbels, Eichmann, And Endless Others. This Dismays Us, And At The Same Time Gives Us A Sense Of Relief, Because Perhaps It Is Desirable That Their Words (and Also, Unfortunately, Their Deeds) Cannot Be Comprehensible To Us. They Are Non-human Words And Deeds, Really Counter-human.

Man Is A Centaur, A Tangle Of Flesh And Mind, Divine Inspiration And Dust.