To lance a boil — and find that one is the boil itself.
“A poet’s best work tends to be facilitated by youth; an aphorist’s, age.”
“Youth is conducive to meditating upon what one wants to see; age, to lamenting what one has been.”
Is there some truth to these claims that I’ve just written down in my notebook? Quite possibly. To offer such remarks without the benefit of caveat or qualification, however, would first require the antibody for humiliation.
At what do I marvel? The depth of my vanity. Mostly that.
However, this isn’t to neglect the impressive length and width of my vanity. Nor the duration of my vanity.
When haggling at a Turkish market, one is able to receive a fair price only if he’s prepared ultimately not to purchase the item in question. It’s the same with spiritual equanimity: impossible to experience until one has abandoned the idea of acquiring it.
Or I suspect that’s the case, at least. My substantial cowardice has prevented me from conducting the necessary experimental work.
Those who allude to crippling self-doubt necessarily reveal a bias in favor of action. To be rendered immobile by one’s thoughts, however, is distinct from possessing a disability — to the contrary, is likely the product of mere good sense. Consider that, even thousands of years later, the central tenet of medical science remains unchanged: first, do no harm.
Dayn Perry awoke one morning from unsettling dreams to find that he resembled a monstrous vermin — rendering it very similar, that sequence of events, to all the other mornings which had preceded it.
This is the regret awaiting every author: to revisit one’s own work and find an insufficient volume of nonsense.