[pre-weblog, 6 June 1991]
f I write what I write for the sake of the right, can thinking be far behind? We are entering into the Age of Pot, life lived through potting soil, soil soiled (like Melville’s soiled fish of the sea) by contact with mundane reality. Uncoiled rapture, the stuff of old mattresses unraveled into the new nightmare of unbelief, makes nonsense of all claims to the contrary.
For what does he know who only knows what is? Is what he knows only who he knows what does he do it for? If hope is dead, can faith and love be far behind? Behind far—be faith and love; can dead is hope if—no—not so, for words can only be their own negation.
It is difficult to stand on a moving ladder.
Brilliance can blind as well as if it were darkness.
The sun rises alike on the just and the unjust, but only early risers will see it.
Every man writes his own Book, but few are privileged to read it.