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Saturday, March 27, 2010
February 1987
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Thursday, March 4, 2010
Seventeenth Aphorism: The Mundane Houses


Friday, February 26, 2010
TWO FRAGMENTS OF EARLIER BOOKS (presented chronologically)
i.
On the sidewalk I ran into a friend whom I had not seen in a long time. Not being in much of a hurry, I accompanied him into the chapel for a few minutes.
The interior was vast and cold and draughty, with hard corners of old carved stones. Here and there among the dim rows of pews, I saw little knots of worshippers, or solitary persons who sat apart in meditation. We paused in reverent silence for a short time, then proceeded up to the front, to the shrine.
No one know how old the shrine was, or what it had been intended to look like; for its original configuration had been completely altered as the succeeding generations encrusted it with new layers of wealth and finery. The shrine was like an organic thing. It was an essentially formless mass which had come to occupy the entire front of the nave. There was no reason to believe it was comprised otherwise than of solid gold.
The shrine was encrusted with all manner of gems and with the small enameled portraits of its devotees. Here and there were found small pits and recesses, and in some of these little light-bulbs had been installed, to illuminate the costly gifts and inscriptions and the little cracking portraits of those who had come to pray here two or three centuries before. There were golden hooks, from which were hung intricate golden baubles; here and there, inexplicably, had been installed little watches and clocks, some of them still ticking, others stopped, displaying various incorrect times. In some places there were mysterious little pits opening into utter darkness, in which no lights had been installed; little gems or marbles had been pushed into a few of these, as if to stop them up. And in places things jutted forth from deep within, things artfully covered in stamped gold foil, but which might well have been human bones.
Every visible inch of the shrine’s costly surface was inlaid and filigreed; however minutely I examined it, it revealed more intricate degrees of detail, which in their turn discovered even tinier nuances, smaller and finer than the most remarkable jewelry I had ever seen, as if spiraling inward to universes of detail smaller than the eye could see. It made me dizzy to stare deeply into it; it was as if my mind beheld and recognized real, concrete infinities and was overwhelmed, even as my eye continued in its more stubborn and analytical way to seek to see to the bottom of them. The impression was of a kind of infinite order and attention to detail which amounted to disorder.
The shrine was there. It shone brightly in the light of its votive candles. It was undefined, and it troubled me.
I turned away finally, sick at heart. My fiend had already averted his eyes and was waiting unobtrusively behind me, as if ready to leave whenever I was. I noticed others who had advanced to the front to touch the shrine with the devotion of their kisses; even as I watched, one of them was quietly augmenting it with yet another costly trifle.
As we turned to leave my friend pointed out a small group of persons seated in one of the front rows. In their midst was a man perhaps in his mid-twenties. He was obviously, severely retarded, with his hair cropped as short as possible, as is so common for those thus afflicted. The spittle dribbled from the imbecile’s mouth; he gazed ahead of him in utter incomprehension.
My friend whispered to me that this man was the sole living descendant and heir of the people who had built the shrine. No doubt these who had accompanied him were his servants and the custodians of his person, themselves descended from generation of others who had served that great family in the same capacity.
I dared look at him for only an instant, so deep was my revulsion at the sight of this last scion of a proud and powerful house, this afflicted being who knew not who he was, who knew not where he was.
* * *
ii.
The hippies would come out and sit on the fence next to the alley in the afternoon, the fence with the No Loitering sign which they had whittled down so they could all sit along it and watch as the commuters walked hastily past after every train.
It was a hot summer evening, happy with the scent of oregano and Italian sausage, and the hippies paused from their smoking and rapping to go into Jolly Roger’s Pizza Parlor and watch the Monkees on the big color TV, which is what they did every Monday evening at that time.
Mickey had just given a look of wide-eyed surprise, when all of a sudden the screen was all wavy lines and there came the sound of John Lennon’s voice counting backwards, “four, three, two, one,” and then the Beatles appeared on the screen in black and white; it wasn’t a very clear picture, kind of grainy and flickering.
Using some kind of weird electric psychedelic gadgetry deep inside their Abbey Road studio, the Beatles had jammed the Monkees’ show—and there they were, doing a song nobody ever heard before, something about “everything you ever said, everywhere you ever went”.
The whole interruption lasted maybe twenty second, and then the Monkees were back clowning around as usual—the Beatles didn’t finish their song, but they amazed everybody with this act of video piracy that jammed stations all across America.
It blew everybody’s mind how the Beatles could have jammed the show; everybody was talking about it. Then the rumors began to circulate—rumors that the Beatles had disappeared. A week after the prank it became official, with George Martin admitting that no one had seen any of the Fab Four since the night of their enigmatic broadcast.
Gradually, as the whole world watched in shock, the pieces of the puzzle began to fit together. The electrical wizardry inside Abbey Road had backfired that Monday night, and for reasons too strange and complicated to explain, the Beatles just disappeared, along with their guitars and all their equipment. All that far-out circuitry and transmitting power had gone haywire in such a way that, in the instant that their new song got cut off, all four Beatles, sealed inside a galvanized compartment, had plunged to the bottom of the North Atlantic. It was too weird to be true, but it was true; electronics experts figured out how it happened but it was too complicated for the average person to understand.
The Beatles were dead. The whole world was numbed by the news.
All night long the arctic wind howled. It was a hopeless task; ther was no possibility whatever that John, Paul, George, or Ringo had survived. There was just the whining of the motorized winches, the unbelievable cold, the disembodied howling of the wind, and the waiting . . .
Awakening from a fitful sleep I rose and looked around me. No one in the superstructure was stirring. I zipped up my bulky arctic coat and, bracing myself, I walked out onto the windswept deck.
The wind hit me broadside; I nearly lost my footing on the iced-over deck in the darkness. The recovery vessel was a low, flat barge; the wind and spray had deposited fantastic layers of hoarfrost over everything. Tattered masses of cloud rushed across the moon, clouds moving angrily down out of the utter, unknowable north; the arctic wind rushed screaming across the ice-floes.
The whining of the winches had ceased, their mechanisms clotted with ice. I saw the cables, vanishing into the frigid depths, straining down toward the horror that lay five miles beneath the sea; I heard them creaking in the darkness.
Ice-floes were forming, rocking and jostling upon the waves. My eyes followed the rising and falling of the sea-green floes in the moonlight; a mile or more away across the groaning ice, I saw an ancient house looming up against the darkness of the stormy sky.
The house was tall and turreted. It was dark and cold and its stone walls had stood and weathered since before the dawn of time. With the simplicity of recognition, I knew that this was the house of the North Wind; that from this ancient, draughty house issued all the cold and wind and ice and menace in the whole world. The wind screamed and tore at me in a blast of counter-recognition; it was a scream of hatred, with cold talons that wanted to still my heart and glaze my seeing eyes over with ice!
In an ecstasy of fascination, I unzipped my coat and cast it aside. The blades of the North Win tore into me and thrilled me to the very core of my being; my spirit left my body and was carried upward, disembodied, helpless in the teeth of the wind.
In the stone turret of the great cold house across the floes there was cut a narrow casement window, and from this window there issued a shaft of clear, cold light. It winked upon the surface of the icy waves. The light was pale and neither white nor yellow.
Even as I looked toward that light the arctic wind took charge of me utterly. I sped across the ice-floes, deafened by the wind, soaring higher, hurtling toward that lighted window from which issued the Wind Itself. I knew that I would die; I knew that if I saw what was inside the window, the sight of it would drive me mad. But it did not matter, for I was almost there—I could see the silent, malevolent shadings of the stone sill, the steady, unflickering light which issued from within and filled the ghostly turret with itself.
For an instant, I thought I almost had a glimpse inside the deadly lighted window; but the violence of the wind carried me too high. I passed over the tower, and my feet just missed the shingles of the turreted roof.
I was caught up in a wild vertical gust, tossed upward like a doll. I lost all sense of balance, all knowledge of up and down, plunging head over heels through the unearthly vertigo, captive of the wind; and at my ear, or in my mind, I heard a voice which said,
“You are despised, my friend . . . despised!”
* * *
The next thing I knew the clock radio was playing that fascinating song by the Smithereens, called “Behind the Wall of Sleep”.
* * *
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Sixteenth Aphorism: The Idiot Questioner

Non diffinias aliquid, antequam scias intentionem quaerentis. Multi quidem interrogare nesciunt, nec possunt exprimere quod intendunt.
To cast off the idiot Questioner, who is always questioning,
But never capable of answering; who sits with a sly grin
Silent plotting when to question, like a thief in a cave;
Who publishes Doubt and calls it Knowledge; whose Science is Despair,
Whose pretence to knowledge is Envy, whose whole Science is
To destroy the wisdom of ages, to gratify ravenous Envy
That rages round him like a Wolf, day and night, without rest.
He smiles with condescension; he talks of Benevolence and Virtue,
And those who act with Benevolence and Virtue they murder time on time.
(William Blake, Milton, book II, pl. 40, 1810)