There Is Something About The Way That

I Was More Worn Out With The "odyssey" Than It Was With The "iliad." I Mean, Just Comparing Those Two - You Can See How It's Changing, How The Language Of The "iliad" Is Somehow Monstrously New - And That Language Of The "odyssey" Is More Comfortable, Even For Us.

A Thinking Mind Is Not Swallowed Up By What It Comes To Know. It Reaches Out To Grasp Something Related To Itself And To Its Present Knowledge (and So Knowable In Some Degree) But Also Separate From Itself And From Its Present Knowledge (not Identical With These). In Any Act Of Thinking, The Mind Must Reach Across This Space Between Known And Unknown, Linking One To The Other But Also Keeping Visible To Difference. It Is An Erotic Space.

All Myth Is An Enriched Pattern, A Two-faced Proposition, Allowing Its Operator To Say One Thing And Mean Another, To Lead A Double Life. Hence The Notion Found Early In Ancient Thought That All Poets Are Liars. And From The True Lies Of Poetry Trickled Out A Question. What Really Connects Words And Things?

Beauty Spins And The Mind Moves. To Catch Beauty Would Be To Understand How That Impertinent Stability In Vertigo Is Possible. But No, Delight Need Not Reach So Far. To Be Running Breathlessly, But Not Yet Arrived, Is Itself Delightful, A Suspended Moment Of Living Hope.

A Man Moves Through Time. It Means Nothing Except That, Like A Harpoon, Once Thrown He Will Arrive.