Thursday, March 19, 2009


...It has been rather difficult to write.

I find I reach a fevered, frenetic pitch--I recently, allegorically, likened my body to coals fed too quickly onto the flames of genius--and when that zenith is attained, like a flood of fire the totality of my being pours forth, melting and scorching any desire for restraint or subjectivity. It is ek-static... I know Holderlin's madness.

But the body of my prose, the corpus, becomes too translucent and I am illuminated too thoroughly. I see myself, in the sinew of text, too suddenly, too violently, and must recoil. Nietzsche writes, untruth is a condition of life. In the waning of my fire, life must be veiled again.

I am exhausted.

[I did, however, note the reference... I just was teaching the _Symposium_, where Orpheus is featured (who lulled the beast to sleep--that is, conquered Hades--but did not trust his own beloved) and noted the trope of music Plato deploys--Socrates, too, is a pied-piper, only he doesn't need a flute: he uses his words. Perhaps, and this isn't me it's Plato, you need more philosophy in your life: "In fact, Simmias...the true philosophers practice dying and they fear death least of all men."

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