Mortal standing on top of the earth, refusing to enter the earth: you tell yourself you are able to see deeply the conflicts of which you are made but, facing death, you will not dig deeply—if you sense that pity engulfs you, you are not delusional: not all pity descends from higher to lesser, some arises out of the earth itself, persistent yet devoid of coercion. We can be split in two, but you are mutilated at the core, your mind detached from your feelings— repression does not deceive organisms like ourselves: once you enter the earth, you will not fear the earth; once you inhabit your terror, death will come to seem a web of channels or tunnels like a sponge’s or a honeycomb’s, which, as part of us, you will be free to explore. Perhaps you will find in these travels a wholeness that eluded you—as men and women you were never free to register in your body whatever left a mark on your spirit.
“What then is truth? A mobile army of metaphors, metonyms, and anthropomorphisms — in short, a sum of human relations, which have been enhanced, transposed, and embellished poetically and rhetorically, and which after long use seem firm, canonical, and obligatory to a people: truths are illusions about which one has forgotten that is what they are; metaphors which are worn out and without sensuous power; coins which have lost their pictures and now matter only as metal, no longer as coins.
We still do not know where the urge for truth comes from; for as yet we have heard only of the obligation imposed by society that it should exist: to be truthful means using the customary metaphors - in moral terms, the obligation to lie according to fixed convention, to lie herd-like in a style obligatory for all…”—'On truth and lie in an extra-moral sense,' The Viking Portable Nietzsche, p.46-7, Walter Kaufmann transl.
“How we need another soul to cling to, another body to keep us warm. To rest and trust; to give your soul in confidence: I need this, I need someone to pour myself into.”—Sylvia Plath, The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath (via lavandula)
The Lord gives everything and charges by taking it back. What a bargain. Like being young for a while. We are allowed to visit hearts of women, to go into their bodies so we feel no longer alone. We are permitted romantic love with its bounty and half-life of two years. It is right to mourn for the small hotels of Paris that used to be when we used to be. My mansard looking down on Notre Dame every morning is gone, and me listening to the bell at night. Venice is no more. The best Greek Islands have drowned in acceleration. But it’s the having not the keeping that is the treasure. Ginsberg came to my house one afternoon and said he was giving up poetry because it told lies, that language distorts. I agreed, but asked what we have that gets it right even that much. We look up at the stars and they are not there. We see the memory of when they were, once upon a time. And that too is more than enough.
In my youth, women often took me aside And told me I reminded them of A dead brother, an uncle, a late lover. Some of them wore beards. One lay with slashed wrists in a tub. Another of my doubles had gone for a walk And never came back from the woods.
“We cannot tell the precise moment when friendship is formed. As in filling a vessel drop by drop, there is at last a drop which makes it run over; so in a series of kindness there is at last one which makes the heart run over.”—Montag, Fahrenheit 451 (via 12ozmouse)