© BurgsEye 2002
"The poem is the dream made flesh, in a two-fold sense: as work of art, and as life itself, which is a work of art. When man becomes fully concious of his powers, his role, his destiny, he is an artist and he ceases to struggle with reality. He becomes a traitor to the human race. He creates war because he has become permanently out of step with the rest of humanity. He sits on the doorstep of his mother's womb with his race memories and his incestuous longings and he refuses to budge. He lives out his dream in Paradise. He transmutes his real experience of life into spiritual equations. He scorns the ordinary alphabet which yields at most only a grammar of thought, and adopts the symbol, the metaphor, the ideaograph. He writes Chinese. He creates an impossible world out of an incomprehensible language, a lie that enchants and enslaves men..."
-Henry Miller (1937)
The World of Lawrence: A Passionate Appreciation (1980)
1 comment:
ELP
You taken to Henry like and old Parisian whore! I hope he is guiding your way as he did mine all those years ago, penniless in France.
Sorry to blog myself up but i have been going through the files and a thread emerged which I needed to express. The thread being one of creative partnership and chaos!
i hope you are worthy and good and I will contact you more personally soon. For the first time in a long time, I am free of my inspiration of choice and the wellspring of hyperactivity gushes forth, hence lte nights digging through the files like an archeologist on crack.
Keep up the good work amigo,
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