sophisticato, the humans do not understand
what else is new?
an old drawing, but it's for today, if i am to brighten the 'truth' associated with the concept
reading nightwood:
the doctor, nodding, straightened his tie with two fingers,. 'the number of our days is not check rein enough to look up on he death of our love. while living we knew her too well, and never understood, for then our next gesture permitted our next misunderstanding. but death is intimacy walking backward. we are crazed with grief when she, who once permitted us, leaves to us the only recollection. we shed tears of bankruptcy then. so its well she didn't. he sighed. you are still in trouble - i thought you had put yourself outside of it. i might have known better, nothing is what everybody wants, the world runs on that law. personally, if i could, i would instigate meat-axe day, and out of the goodness of my heart i would whack your head off along with a couple others. every man should be allowed one day and a hatchet just to ease his heart.
she said: what will happen now, to me and to her?
nothing, the doctor answered, as always. we all go down in battle, but we all come home.
she said: i can only find her again in my sleep or in her death; in both she has forgotten me.
listen, the doctor said, putting down his glass. my war brought me many things; let yours bring you as much. life is not to be told, call it as loud as you like, it will not tell itself. no one will be much or little except in someone else's mind, so be careful of the minds you get into, and remember lady macbeth, who had her mind in her hand. we can't all be as safe as that.
....
You are, he said, testing the wine between his lower lip and teeth, experiencing the inbreeding of pain. most of us do not dare it. we wed a stranger, and so 'solve' our problem. but when you inbreed with suffering (which is merely to say that you have caught every disease and so pardoned your flesh) you are destroyed back to your structure as an old master disappears beneath the knife of the scientist who would know how it as painted. death i imagine will be pardoned by the same identification ; we wall carry about with us the house of death, the skeleton, but unlike the turtle our safety is inside, our danger out. time is a great conference planning our end, and youth is only the past putting a leg forward. ah, to be able to hold on to suffring, but to let the psirit loose! and speaking of being destroyed, allow me to illustrate by telling you of one night in London when I was hurring along, my hands before me, praying i'd get home and into be dna d wake up in the morning without finding my hands on my hips. so i started for london bridge -
...
Time isn't long enough, she said striking the table. it isn't long enough to live down her nights. God, she cried, what is love? man seeking his own head? the human head, so rented by misery that even the teeth weigh! she couldn't tell me the truth because she had never planned it; he life was a continual accident, and how can you be prepared for that? everything we can't bear in this world, some day we find it in one person, and love it all at once. a strong sense of identity gives man an idea he can do no wrong; too little accomplishes the same. some natures cannot appreciate, only regret. will robin only regret?
she stopped abruptly, gripping the back of the chair. perhaps not, she said, for even her memory wearied her. then she said with the violence of misery, there's something evil in me that loves evil and degradation - purity's black backside! that loves honesty with a horrid love, or why have i always gone seeking it the lair's door?
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