the vows taken when something greater manifests its presence

the motie-reverie which permits one to participate in an event and yet remain quite aloof, the little detail which was lacking began obscurely but insistently to coagulate, to assume a freakish, crystalline form. And like those frost patterns which seem so bizarre, so free and fantastic in design, but which are nevertheless determined by the most rigid deterministic laws, so this sensation which commenced to take form inside me seemed also to be giving obedience to the ineluctable laws. My whole being was responding to the dictates of an ambience which it had never before experienced; that which I could call myself seemed to be contracting, condensing, shrinking from the stale, customary boundaries of the flesh whose perimeter knew only the modulations of the nerve ends. and the more substantial, the more solid my core became, the more delicate and extravagant appeared the reality out of which I was being squeezed. In the measure that I became more and more metallic, in the same measure the scene before my eyes became inflated. The state of tension was so finely drawn that the introduction of a single foreign particle, even a microscopic particle, would have shattered everything. For the fraction of a second perhaps I experienced that clarity which the epileptic, it is said, lives by. In that moment I lost completely the illusion of time and space: the world unfurled its drama simultaneously along a meridian with no axis. In this sort of hair-trigger eternity I felt that everything was justified, supremely justified; I felt the wars inside me that had left behind this pulp and wrack; I felt the crimes that were seething here to emerge tomorrow in blatant screamers; I felt the misery that was grinding itself out with pestle and mortar, the long dull misery that dribbles away in dirty handkerchiefs. On the meridian of time there is no injustice: there is only the poetry of motion creating the illusion of truth. If at any moment anywhere one comes face to face with the absolute, that great sympathy which makes men like Gautama and Jesus seem divine freezes away; the monstrous thing is not that men have created labyrinths in highways, but that, for some reason or other, they should want labyrinths. For some reason or other man looks for the miracle, and to accomplish it he will wade through blood. He will debauch himself with ideas; he will reduce himself to a shadow if for only one second of his life he can close his eyes to the hideousness of reality. Everything is endured: humiliation, poverty, disgrace, war, crime, ennui, in the belief that overnight something will occur, a miracle. And all the while a meter is running inside and there is no hand that can reach in and shut it down.

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This entry was posted by Tournapin.

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