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…ort aux vaches! Fénélon. Merde pour les Boches! Bossuet. Il faut épater le bourgeois. Pascal. He only does it to annoy, Because he knows it teases With his wow-wow-wow. Rev. C. L. Dodgson.
…It ends in the mystery-night whence its clumsy creation began. It observes, it reflects, it decides as the slave of unconscious desires, Knows neither the world nor itself, nor stands for an hour but it tires. It struts in its pageant of pride, yet at heart is aware it is vain, And its summit of proof is to prove nothing proven, and itself but insane. The soul, ah the flame! Ah, the star! The God in us shining above! The soul, beyond being and form! Then is not the name of it Love? Nay, darker and deeper the curse, more dread the abyss never pl…
…r madness or love? I am cast to esteem them the same. Am I only a dream in the sleep of some butterfly? Phantom of fright Conceived, who knows how, or how deep, in the measureless womb of the night? I imagine impossible thought, metaphysical voids that beget Ideas intangible wrought to things less conceivable yet. It may be. Little I reckbut, assume the existence of earth, Am I born to be hanged by the neck, a curse from the hour of my birth? Am I born to abolish mans guilt? His horrible heritage, awe? Or a seed in his wantonness spilt by a j…