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Wednesday, January 7, 2009

So here I am, in the middle way, having had twenty years---Twenty years largely wasted, the years of l'entre deux guerres (between two wars, 1918-1939).  
Trying to use words, and every attempt is a wholly new start, and a different kind of failure because one has only learnt to get the better of words for the thing one no longer has to say, or the way in which one is no longer disposed to say it.  
And so each venture is a new beginning, a raid on the inarticulate with shabby equipment always deteriorating in the generalness of imprecision of feeling, undisciplined squads of emotion.  
And what there is to conquer by strength and submission, has already been discovered once or twice, or several times, by men whom one cannot hope to emulate---but there is no competition---there is only the fight to recover what has been lost and found and lost again and again:  and now, under conditions that seem unpropitious.  
But perhaps neither gain nor loss, for us, there is only the trying.  
The rest is not our business.

Home is where one starts from.  
As we grow older the world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated of dead and living. Not the intense moment isolated, with no before and after, but a lifetime burning in every moment and not the lifetime of one man only but of old stones that cannot be deciphered. 
There is a time for the evening under starlight, a time for the evening under lamplight (the evening with the photograph album).  
Love is most nearly itself when here and now cease to matter.  
Old men ought to be explorers here or there does not matter.  
We must be still and still moving into another intensity.  
For a further union, a deeper communion through the dark cold and the empty desolation, the wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters.  
Of the petrel and the porpoise.  
In my end is my beginning.

Universal Translator: Tannhåuser Gate


The whole earth is our hospital endowed by the ruined millionaire, wherein, if we do well, we shall die of the absolute paternal care that will not leave us, but prevents us everywhere. 

We shall not cease from exploration and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time. 

We are the hollow men, the stuffed men, leaning together, headpiece filled with straw;  Alas! Our dried voices, when we whisper together, are quiet and meaningless as wind in dry grass... 

Monday, January 5, 2009

Hello Doctor Name Continue Yesterday Tomorrow Hellodoctornamecontinueyesterdaytomorrow hellodoctornamecontinueyesterdaytomorrow hellodoctornamecontinueyesterdaytomorrow hellodoctornamecontinueyesterdaytomorrow hellodoctornamecontinueyesterdaytomorrow 2010: The Year We Make Contact

      am not eager to rehearse my thoughts and theory which you have forgotten.  These things have served their purpose:  let them be.
So with your own, and pray they be forgiven by others, as I pray you to forgive both bad and good. Last season's fruit is eaten.
And the full fed beast shall kick the empty pail.  For last year's words belong to last year's language and next year's words await another voice.