What Else Is Soul But A Listener?

Knowing Has Two Poles, And They Are Always Poles Apart: Carnal Knowing, The Laying On Of Hands, The Hanging Of The Fact By Head Or Heels, The Measurement Of Mass And Motion, The Calibration Of Brutal Blows, The Counting Of Supplies; And Spiritual Knowing, Invisibly Felt By The Inside Self, Who Is But A Fought-over Field Of Distraction, A Stage Where We Recite The Monotonous Monologue That Is Our Life, A Knowing Governed By Internal Tides, By Intimations, Motives, Resolutions, By Temptations, Secrecy, Shame, And Pride.

The Body Of Our Saviour Shat But Our Saviour Shat Not.

I Write Because I Hate. A Lot. Hard.

Words Are The Supreme Objects. They Are Minded Things.

We Must Take Our Sentences Seriously, Which Means We Must Understand Them Philosophically, And The Odd Thing Is That The Few Who Do, Who Take Them With Utter Sober Seriousness, The Utter Sober Seriousness Of Right-wing Parsons And Political Saviors, The Owners Of Pomeranians, Are The Liars Who Want To Be Believed, The Novelists And Poets, Who Know That The Creatures They Imagine Have No Other Being Than The Sounding Syllables Which The Reader Will Speak Into His Own Weary And Distracted Head. There Are No Magic Words. To Say The Words Is Magical Enough.