When The Newspapers Have Got Nothing Else

Now I Know Surely And Forever, However Much I Have Blotted Our Waking Love, Its Memory Is Still There. And I Know The Web, The Net, The Blind And Crippled Bird. For Then, For One Brief Instant It Was Not Blind, Nor Trapped, Not Crippled. For One Heart Beat The Heart Was Free And Moved Itself. O Love, I Who Am Lost And Damned With Words, Whose Words Are A Business And An Art, I Have No Words. These Words, This Poem, This Is All Confusion And Ignorance. But I Know That Coached By Your Sweet Heart, My Heart Beat One Free Beat And Sent Through All My Flesh The Blood Of Truth.

The Moral Issues With Which Marcus Struggles Would Be, As He Points Out, Unchanged Whether The Universe Were Mechanical And Devoid Of Meaning Or Value Or Ruled By Deity Or Providence; Whether The Will Were In Fact Free Or Determined; Whether There Were Or Were Not A Future Life, Or Any Even Fugitive Rewards And Punishments At All.

Any Talented Decadent Can Make Unreality Believable. To Make Reality Convincing Is Another Matter, A Matter For Only The Greatest Masters.

Bohemia Is A Commune In Which The Revolution Is Over And Everyone Is A Member Of The Aristocracy

Art Is The Reasoned Derangement Of The Senses.