Contra Eliot and Pound

In responding to my poem, Europa, Europa, posted on 7/24/08, Chris Godfree Morrell writes:
I have a feeling this is a bit like prodding a hornet's nest, but what exactly do you think that Eliot and Pound 'did'?

Thanks for asking, Chris! I’ll try not to let the teapot boil over. (smile)

My objections to these two fellows emerged over time, and came about through a careful reading of their voices. I encapsulate that understanding in my poem, with the lines:
Their little bigots, they call them prophets,
Whose manifesto reads, "You are the hollow men."

I express three important concepts in those two lines. The first is that Pound and Eliot are often described as the greatest writers of the 20th century. Indeed, many critics have called them prophets. Obviously, I reject that, for two reasons. The first is that both men were vicious and outspoken bigots. This is not so obvious in their writings, so let me defer that discussion for a moment. Rather, let me begin with the voice, the perspective of the writer who wrote Prufrock, The Wasteland, Hollow Men.

The literalist reader might claim that Eliot writes in such a way as to include himself among the empty and inept human beings he has chosen to describe. Eliot, in point of fact, does not write, “YOU are the hollow men.” He writes, “WE are the hollow men.” But these scathing poems have nothing of the hesitance, insecurity, self-doubt, and timidity of the characters they describe. In them, Eliot writes with unrestrained contempt and disdain. He accuses and points his finger at the people around him, little people in his eyes. He says “we,” but he means “you.” YOU are hollow; YOU are Prufrock; YOU live in a wasteland and YOU are not worthy of anything better. Eliot writes with the voice of a feudal master, overseeing his ignorant peasants and his simpering, sniveling servants.

These poems express an arrogance and contempt for humanity that offend me to the core of my being. Does the author suggest any new and better path for his characters? Does he offer a means for redemption? Does he at least show some empathy for the weakness and limits of these little people that are so far beneath him? Not a word.

Given this master-slave mentality in the poems, it is not so hard to read between the lines and see what Eliot’s letters and private correspondence confirm: he is a racialist bigot. Eliot privately, and Pound openly were nazi sympathizers and fascist supporters. And both were vicious anti-Semites.

Yet, somehow, the reading public has allowed itself to ignore these facts. It is as if in some alternate reality, Hitler and Goebbels were talented painters, skilled at representing the imagined deformity of those they hated, as well as being leaders of the nazi party. And in this alternate reality, the anti-nazi public, nonetheless, raved about how wonderful Hitler’s and Goebbels’ paintings were. Impossible? Outrageous? Yet we see it with Eliot and Pound: racialist bigots who paint deformed human beings, and who, nonetheless, are accorded the highest honors in society.

So, Chris, you ask, “what have these men done?” They have slandered humanity. They have cursed their societies. And worst of all, they have misled a reading public into assuming the contempt-filled vision expressed by these two authors. The public, too, reads “YOU are the hollow men,” and sneers at the incompetent and unredeemable Prufrocks around them. Sneers, and doesn’t think to lift a hand to help.

Therefore, I say Eliot's and Pound's writing offends me. However, I am even more offended by their moral corruption as human beings. And being thus doubly offended, should I not speak out against them?

And finally, this postscript. You bigots! Don’t imagine you can hide your bigotry beneath the surface of your writing, or somehow cleanse your writing from the stain and stench of hatred and intolerance. Emotions create the foundation and shape of our thoughts. Emotions determine what we look at and how we value things. A bigot’s writing will be deformed by that bigotry. And just as their writing will be deformed and made ugly by hatred, so everything about them will be deformed and made ugly. The struggle against intolerance and hatred is a perpetual battle waged by every single person. Those who make headway in this battle become more beautiful and heroic; those who succumb become more ugly and more vile.

Europa, Europa: further discussion #2

The following is from a review of the book Beyond the Hoax: Science, Philosophy and Culture, by Alan Sokal, written by Simon Blackburn for the “New Republic.” You can find the whole review at [http://www.powells.com/review/2008_08_14.html?utm_source=overview&utm_medium=rss&utm_campaign=rss_overview&utm_content=Beyond%20the%20Hoax%3A%20Science%2C%20Philosophy%20and%20Culture&PID=18].

While most of this article is not terribly pertinent to my poem Europa, Europa, the following excerpt, speaking of the limits, if not the end of relativism, is a clear statement of what is the beginning place for my poem. If you don’t understand and agree with the following, you will surely have trouble with the poem.

...but consider in this connection also "political liberalism," the heading under which John Rawls could imagine the peoples of the world willingly leaving their ideological and cultural differences at the door and coming into the political arena carrying only that which they hold in common. What they had in common turned out to be a birthright of reason sufficient all by itself to enchant them with a nice liberal democratic constitution, amazingly like that of the United States, or perhaps western Europe. Conflict could be talked through and violence abated. When the philosophers explained the right way to live, everyone would fall happily into line. Innocent times.

But no longer. The present decade is different. The United States has had its wake-up call, and may have others just as loud. It has been told, brutally, that disagreement matters, and that if our grasp of what we need to defend is feeble enough, there are people out there only too happy to wrest it away from us. It has reacted even more brutally to that alarm by declaring war on people who had nothing to do with it in the first place, and then conducting that war with counterproductive barbarity. It has learned that there is not much common reason that is everyone's birthright -- that when disagreement comes, people cannot afford to shrug.

There are times when we have to do better than [say] "whatever" and "anything goes." A country needs to understand what is good, and also what is not good, about its preferred ways of living. It needs to understand what is good, and why, about its science, history, and self-understandings; and it even needs to understand what was good, and why, about the politics and the ethics [or religion] that it may have abandoned, let us hope temporarily.

I am a Jew, not a Christian, but I have come to understand the value and importance of Christianity, in spite of its failings. The abandonment of a such a faith by the majority, no matter the reasons, will create a vacuum that will be filled, as surely as any physical vacuum. If Christianity needs to be renewed, then now is the time to do it. If not, be assured, another God-based faith will replace it. Europe, I call on you to take possession of your future, and not abandon it to “whatever.”

Gottverdammerung, 3

In this scene, Ertha refrains Elmallah’s lament with one of her own. She has seen her authority and power progressively fade, from being a goddess (Innonna/Ishtar, Bouk 3), to an empress (Byzantine Theyodorra, Bouk 4), to the intellectual partner of a renowned philosopher (Helloweez, Bouk 5), to what? A nameless woman caught in the onrush of history.

Rivkaz Lamment

O I hav bin a goddess;
I roze up in the sky.
O I hav bin a goddess;
I rode the waevz on hi.

O gloreyus my powwer
Tu raze the towwering waevz ,
Or klap my handz in thunder
And rowz the hewman slave.

So tell me wut it meenz tu be a goddess
Karresst intu an idel made ov klay;
And tell me how it feelz tu see yur immij
Dry intu dust and slolee blo awway.

I hu spannd the ajez
Frum Innonna and Astartee
Tu Isht and Afroditee;
Hu spanned the en-dimmensha
Frum objeks withowt mass
Tu feeldz ov antee time;
Hu spanned the raenj ov ekstasseez
Frum sex tu Elmallah;
Awl my werldz ar a lump in my throet.
My wizdem frum a bouk lernd by rote.

Lamment for my chieldz
Hu ar torn in konflikt,
And lamment for me
Huze little wunz will die.
The armeez parrade in perfekt presizhen
But thay stagger tu battel drunk on liez.

Lamment for my chieldz
Hu ar torn in konflikt;
Hu defy thaer konshents
In merderres lust.
Wut will happen tu thaer boddeez
Wen thaer Soelz ar but dust?

Now tell me wut it meenz tu be a preestess
And tell me wut it meenz tu speek the trueth.
I hav a hundred boddeez and a konshents for eech wun
Wich wun am I, and wut iz the pruef?

O I hav bin a goddess
And I hav bin a kween
And I hav bin a hor
But at leest I wuz free.
And alwayz I wuz shor
I stoud abbuv the law.
O I hav bin deluded.
I hav oenlee bin in thrawl.

Lamment for me
Huze eyz ar opend.
Lamment for me
And my histeree ov liez.
I hav wun life
And a thowzend illuzhenz.
O Elloheem and Elmallah
Lamment for me.

Gottverdammerung, 2

In this scene, the Messenger, Elmallah, descends from his heavens to the woman Ertha, to once again try to lift her up. At the end of his descent...

I Had Wun Life

O, I wuz varee happee;
I livd amung my peerz.
O, I wuz varee blissful;
My werl did not kno feer.

O, I wuz full ov wunder;
The law wuz my expere.
O, all my akts wer wunderz;
My Gode wuz varee neer.

I hav wun life;
I liv 100 lieftiemz.
O, all yu paeshent aenjelz
Lamment for me.

I hav wun Konshents;
It spanz 1000 boddeez.
Yu dreemerz and misteks
Kommune with me.

Now tell me how it feelz tu be an aenjel
And tell me how it feelz tu wok with Gode.
Yu take wun step; yu kross 1000 lieftiemz;
Yu tern arownd and see them dissappeer.
And tell me how it feelz tu be exxalted,
And tel me wut it meenz tu tok with Gode.
Yu heer wun Werd; the werlz bekum tranzparen.
Yu liv 1000 lieftiemz in a Moment ov Bliss.

Now tell me wut it meenz tu be benited,
And tell me how it feelz tu looz yur site.
I bliendlee stumbel down theze naro alleez,
My shaking hand on damp and krumbling wawlz.
Wut ar the werdz tu pennatrate the darkness?
Wut ar the praerz tu open hoepless iyz?
Kan I kast down liez and brake them on the kobbelz?
Will thay shatter and retern me tu the lite?
And looking down
towards Sodom and Gomorrah...,
he saw the smoke of the land
rising like the smoke of a kiln.
-- Beraysheet 19:28

Europa, Europa: further discussion

My very good friend and fellow pilgrim, Greg Barker responded in this way to my poem of July 24, 2008, Europa, Europa:

GB:
Powerful. The Muslim flood IS coming. And it seems that you are suggesting that Freethinking-Atheism will not be providing anything more than that which can be choked on.

SMB:
My thought is that hollow men do not have the wherewithal to resist people with a mission. And that an empty soul will seek to be filled.

GB:
Can you tell me more about:
Their little bigots, they call them prophets,
Whose manifesto reads, "You are the hollow men."

SMB:
T.S. Eliot., the so-called great poet/prophet of C20, and his equally bigoted sidekick Ezra Pound. These men have done untold damage to culture, in my opinion. These are the kind of people that the Prophet Jeremiah railed against. And I will follow in Jeremiah’s footsteps.

GB:
I could carry on with so many more questions that this has sparked...and don't know if you want to go down these roads...but I'll put it out there anyways. I think the George Lucas of the 70's had some parallel concerns. Did he offer any solution in his mythology?

SMB:
Not sure what you mean here. The battle between good and evil in Star Wars? I'm not saying Islam is evil in this poem. I'm saying Europe's soul is dying, and that Christianity is in big trouble and may need some serious rethinking if it wants to survive in Europe. I'm hinting at the fact that nazism may have succeeded in at least one of its programs. By undermining and discrediting Europe’s Christian foundations, Europe has been re-paganized, in a manner of speaking. In the end Europe’s secular paganism will not stand up against existential spiritual yearnings, and the focus and authority of monotheism.

Where might this all go? Clearly, Europe won't become Jewish [smile]. But either Christianity will revitalize itself, or Islam will make significant, even massive inroads. The revitalization of Christianity is not out of the question. We see a religious resurgence in Eastern Europe and Russia after its long-standing ideological suppression. However, the Islamification of secular Europe might be a very interesting thing if it brings about the liberalizing of Islam's fundamentalism. Wouldn't that be an ironic and surprising development? And with a liberal Islam, the religious wars of the last 2000 years might very well come to a non-apocalyptic, and spiritually elevated end! We might finally be able to put the jihadist and hate-embedded apocalyptic mythology of Christianity and Islam behind us.

Gottverdammerung

I have begun to prepare a fair copy of Book 6 of the Song ov Elmallahz Kumming. This is long, long overdue. Here is the opening panorama. BTW, this book is tentatively entitled Gottverdammerung.

A Strobe Lite on Erthaz Werld

A man migraten tu a land, fownd dry dust.
He tilld with grate laber.
A lush garden bloomz.

An eegel bilt a nest in a windee krag
And hatcht an eg.
She fed her yung and raezd it,
Tu kast it frum the nest.
She kot it tu kast it aggen.
Her yung iz made tu sore.

A man tosst and ternz a fitful sleep.
He woud wake but be unnabel to rize.
He woud dreem ov being awwake.
He woud dreem a sereez ov awwakeningz
In eech, surprize! He iz not alreddee awwake.
The werldz swam, hiz dreemz,
En-dimmenshenz ov illuzhen awoven.

A yung liyon livd a grate plennatude.
Frum hiz abunden he enterd a nu land
A subdu it tu hiz rule.
A wield plase, full ov kunning.
Deseet, vermen, hunger.
Kan a liyon streng prevael in such?

Why I write verses

An angel came and plopped himself down in my study last night. No one listened to him but me. Some people didn’t even see him. Sad, sad world we live in, eh? Oh well. He said,

“It is difficult to see a way ahead for the human race--though I fully believe there must be ways ahead.”

I suppose he was checking to see how closely my thoughts aspired to his. I’ll have to ask him the next time he stops by. Anyway, this is what I said, more or less:

Defining and declaring those ways ahead is critical. As I've said many times, quoting/misquoting Fred Turner, ‘we cannot build a better world if we don't first imagine what it will look like.’

Putting aside those who can only look backwards and cluck their tongues at how bad the world has become. And those who can only make cynical comments about our current state, but who have themselves done absolutely nothing to find a better path forward. And those who draw realistic pictures of the world and say, ‘this is all there is.’ And those who exaggerate, twist up, misrepresent, and just plain lie about how things are, in their vicious hypocrisy. There are yet many with faith, who believe that we can find a good way forward.

But too often those with such faith look so far ahead, they lose touch with who/what/where we are. Most religious thinkers and moralizers are driven by messianic visions that hang only by a thread to this world. Or take Marx, in his socialist dream. He is a perfect example of a utopian who forgot that he had to work with real people. Can anyone articulate the next step, rather than the final step? The final step is easy: people who are moral, wise, happy, full of wonder and love.

So how can we invoke more love from ourselves? That is a question dear to my angel friend, and is a theme he is working on in all his mystical machinations. How can we inspire more wonder? That was A.J. Heschel's theme. The problem is, we actually need to build the tools, and not just talk about what we ought to do, or where we ought to be. Perhaps that’s what the Buddha intended with his 8-fold path. That is definitely the purpose of all the 12-step programs that have become so popular, but which, unfortunately, are mostly just intended to get us back to “normal.”

I would suggest that art must take a leading role here. We have all seen great films that were meant to inspire people to want to love more or be wiser or be kinder. And at least until the 20th century, this was a major topic for literature. But still, there’s a problem. There’s plenty of inspirational material, but little that gives us a detailed how-to. Real change is assumed, but the process is glossed over.

What a contrast to our technological world! We can build all kinds of wonderful tools, to wash clothes or to fly to the moon. But we live in a world of dearth when it comes to psychological and spiritual tools.

The US - Iran axis can be seen as a stereotypic model (remembering that stereotypes distort and misrepresent even while offering a template). In the US people live in a Roman wilderness of indulgence. Or more crudely, people grow fat and stupid on junk food and junk entertainment. In Iran people live enchained in harsh religious mores that suppress creativity and diversity. Crudely, people are xenophobic and ignorant.

In general, we see a medieval world of ruthless oppressions to control rampant sinfulnesses. In the example above it's the sneering ayatollahs vs the fat Americans. Both are lawless and revolting, each in their separate ways. In both states there can be no dignity. Dignity must be earned through restraint and sensitivity. There is no restraint where indulgence reigns, and nothing can be earned where behavior is controlled from without. This is the state of our moral and psychological technology. Medieval.

And therefore I compose verses, trying to show how real people come to grips with new ways to see the world. Ahhh, to such little avail.

Inside Yeats' Byzantium

Europa, Europa

And over and over the mockers mock
And the brutish bellow like a donkey brays.
Europe withers like an orchid in the heat.
It staggers like an old man and gasps for a drink.

Like an old cistern that is filled with trash,
Their empty churches molder and leak.
Like a library full of illuminated books,
But the whole population is unable to read.

The monarchists were right! The people are fools.
They cannot choose leaders or find their way.
They massacred the Messiah People among them,
Then mocked the Messiah followers’ faith.

Their little bigots, they call them prophets,
Whose manifesto reads, “You are the hollow men.”
And hollow they became, withered and parched,
And no one knows where to find a drink.

Like floodlands protected by levees and dikes,
Their skinheads and marxists are rotten and weak.
The seas rise and the flood rumbles
And the parched people only choke in the heat.

Their children already cry, "water, water!"
But no one hears them, or finds them a cup.
The dams will break, like Byzantium's did,
And choking they’ll drown in a Muslim flood.

Carried upon Eagle's Wings

Continuing with Ben Azziy's latest adventures in Pardaes, the higher worlds. He and his 3 chevruta partners are attempting to unlock the passageways to direct access to Pardaes. In Part 1 he tumbles out of the sky...

Ben Azzai Fallz Frum the Egelz Nest, II.
               And you shall say to them:
               ‘Shall they fall and not rise?’
                    Yermeyahu 8:4

Last nite, behoeld! Uddoniy relees me frum thoze tallenz
The grippee, kleengee, stickkee streengz, the Addom,
Hu luerz me in hiz kwest for erthee knowen.
     So saverree the wouman frute,
          The rownden, blushee, charee brests,
               The kerlee haer, the darken chantee iyz
               In all thaer deepen dizzee deths.
                    The snakee entiesmen,
               On and on;
          A liebraree a storeez
     Abbowt theze erthee boddeez and nekterree fruets.

But az I say, last nite releest.
A wonder in the pallas and its mazee thotwaez.
I wuz stept intu a passij;
Then a sens ov gaspee rizen. Like I say, releest.
Sumtheeng fell awway, I kno not wut, nor ware it iz.
But I am here, a song within a hartbeet
In the interweev a tiedz ammung a thowzen seez.
A vast, o serj, unnutterreenglee werd,
The all and nutheengness ov Godseeng, saeng, unsung.

Carried upon Eagle's Wings

Ben Azzai Fallz Frum the Egelz Nest, I.

Last nite, behoeld! Uddoniy relees me frum Hem tallenz.
The momen ov relees an its joy,
Till I awwake, fallen thru the aerz:
Bloen vilen in the wind, long haer streemen bak,
Kloethz billo, taren frum my limmz,
My werth az a messagger bloen awway with my kepa;
My werth az a hewman. Relees! Relees.
Fall, o messagger, wile the egel fly on.

This mornen, behoeld! Uddoniy relees me frum Hem tallenz.
The eternatteez ov relees an its thanks,
Even az I awwake in this aera a sepperraten
Ware I am laen in this garden. Uddoniy abbuv
Louks down frum Ware-I-Kno-Not
Uppon this braken boddee ov a skwerl
Or a lamm, or ennee ole praez,
Laen down beneeth Hem nest, a later feed am I.

C and the horizons of time, IV.

The fourth, and probably last, in this series begun 6/24:

Aenjelman Dreemz

IV. And the Dotter ov Sawl Had No Chield

Wen I kaem tu the wouman the garden a saje,
All fraegren az insens, an shining a gaze.
2 twisted loevz, a goblet a wine,
And a bouk a seengz in a soft resiet.

I approech her tabel, a deziyerren trueth,
And sed, "Du yu seek wut iz not in yur bouk?
     "I am seen yu naked. Wer I naked tu yu?"
She blusht. She blansht. She belied her louks
And sed, "Ive bin wunderen the saem ov yu."

But her fother overheerz and wuz graetlee dismayd.
He kloisterd her up ware she yet remaenz.
Then sendz hiz dogz, wonten my repent,
With thaer toothee grinz and kiendess skant.

For a momen I see her thru the serfassez a dreem.
Then the kerrents drag down and she kant be seen.
               "Michal, Saul's daughter, looked through a window,
               and saw king David leaping and dancing before the Lord;
               and she despised him in her heart."
               2 Shmuel, 6:16

C and the horizons of time, III.

Continuing with this series begun on 6/24, here is the third moment of

Aenjelman Dreemz

III. Theyodorra Owt ov Kostume
Wen I kaem tu the wouman the garden the keeng,
All kweenlee she wer, with her saffiyer reengz
And her jewwel-studdee, lasee, errottee vaelz.
Tho the keeng be distent, empereyus, feerd,
She meengelz in the pepel, street and skware.

Yet varee mistereyus her vois in the keeng.
Tu advize and exhort, or weep and plee?
Up tu my waest in her dreemz, I say,
     “Wy ar yur feeldz thik dust and stubbel?
     “Yur pepel weree, korrupt, and trubbeld.”
     “Wy du yu taree, yu hu karee the keez?”
Frum the skwallen wotterz ov dreem she siy,
     “Woud yu hav me sees my wisperree seeng,
     “And maek not a sownd frum my flutteree weengz?”

Allone in my studdee in the tide-run a praer
I resite nu powemz tu induse her Spere.

Sum say this vizhen iz grownded in:
               “and, behold, Miriam had become leprous,
               white as snow;
               Let her be shut out from the camp seven days,
               and after that let her be received in again:”
               Bemidbar, 12:10,14

C and the horizons of time, II.

Continuing with the series begun on 6/24, here is the second moment of

Aenjelman Dreemz

II. Innonna on Sunset
Wen I kaem tu the wouman in her plezher plase,
All mithen she wer, all Ishtar tu be.
If shame she knu and berth she knu,
The trueth, dizzolvz in the nervee shellz.
Or a siy in the thunderen starree millz.

I spake tu her in her hottee despaer,
"Du yu kno yu ar not the bride* ov the Lor?"
               *utherz say: chozen
And, "Thaze that prae tu yu ar no mor!"
"Yu," she sooth say, "I will yet seddues!"
Braken klae tabelz ar all that remaen
Waer the goddess clasht with the Inneffabel Rime.

Long I waet uppon Babballonz mownd.
The heet, the starz, and the wind a howl.
“Come down, and sit in the dust,
               O virgin daughter of Babylon,
               sit on the ground; there is no throne...
               your nakedness shall be uncovered,
               your shame shall be seen.”
               Yesheyahhu 47:1,3

C and the horizons of time

Aenjelman Dreemz

Prolog
I wuz a dreem I wuz an aenjel;
I wuz ov them hu kan step owtside a time.
I wok thoze hi ramparts arrown my Lor,
Hem Tempel wallz, the eternel dwellenz,
Seeking the holeez in the addom shellenz.

I. Kall me Eve
Wen I kaem tu the wouman in her garden a faeth,
All godstuff she iz, a perfekten a form.
Befor she knu shame and the *layerz a trueth*
               ** utherz say: bitterz ov berth
I spoke tu her. Such an eeger yueth.
I sed, “Du yu kno yu ar naked in yur Lor?”
And “Du yu long tu expere a truwer werd?”
“Serpent,” she kalld me. The Lor kaem down
Tu punnish me, but she fled her grownd.
Tu retern she must enter my eternatteez ov lite.
Long, long I waet till she konker her frite.
               “The man and woman hid themselves from God...”
               Beraysheet, 3:8

Blindness, blindness, be my pillow

Ah, you world of restless dreams and anxieties!

Night by night I go hunting for a key. It is lost, but I cannot discover why. Either I have lost it, or an angel dropped it, and I have been sent here to find it. Ah, it is lost, and the irony is this: I cannot return from my mission until I find it. It is the key to unlock the gates of matter.

Night by night I go hunting for the key. The key is lost in a dream world. Each morning I wake, cut off from my dreams. My labors by day are dreary. I must find the key, but here I am, locked in this world of matter.

Night by night I go hunting for this key. I know the hour of waking is approaching and my dreams turn troubled. Am I awake or am I sleeping? I test myself. In the world of dreams impossible things happen. Reason has no hold. I say to myself, “if this is a dream, then let this river run backwards!” It begins to run backwards and I know I am dreaming, so I wake myself. “Do not wake yourself the next time,” I think.

Night by night I go hunting for this precious key. I must learn if I am dreaming, so I can use my time fruitfully to find a way beyond matter. “If this is a dream, let that palm tree plant itself a hundred meters hence.” It replants itself. Now knowing I am dreaming, I become ardent in my search. I must see more clearly. I open my eyes. I awake. “Do not open your eyes next time,” I think.

I am writing this while it is daytime. Or is it? Am I dreaming? The walls of my house stand firm. Angels do not call to me from heaven. But as I look closer, I see that this is not a world of reason. This is a world where everyone is blind. A world full of blind people? It must be a dream. It is a dream! How can I tell? I cannot open my eyes to search for the key.

Twilight, in a world of blind people. Surely this is a dream. Yet everyone I know tells me I am crazy. “This is not a dream,” they say; “I know I am awake.” But me, I cannot open my eyes. I cannot make any sense of this. I, the blind man, can see more than the open-eyed. Please do not think me arrogant, oh, reader. It’s merely that, I at least, know that I cannot yet open my eyes.

Twilight and I am searching ardently throughout my blindness. I wonder if this is morning. Is it time to wake up? Then I wonder, “if I find the key, will it open the gates? If I open the gates to pass beyond matter, will that be a true waking up? If it is a true waking up, does it mean I have died?” This does not worry me. Often I have dreamed of dying, and then woken up.