Thus spake Zarathustra: “I took the degree not to prove anything in particular . . . I took it to prove I was ethical . . . “
As far as seafood is concerned, Toronto’s between Calgary and the ocean . . . they love you in Calgary and Halifax, and in Toronto they don’t care . . .
Like legends, they often contain a core of truth. Some are even amusing. As the Canadian first son of an English first son of a German first son I laughed when together my wife and I coined this:
Germans are English without a sense of humor;
English are Germans without a sense of honor;
Canadians are mixed and can’t figure out what they are.
A friend asked: “Is there ever a time when you can look at yourself and say: ‘I know what I’m doing, and these are the reasons?'” I think the answer is “No”, but I’m always wrong. And if it’s “Yes”, how will I know I’m not still wrong? Right now, for instance, part of me says “You’ve never felt better in your life.” Another part says “You’ve never felt worse.” Part wants to curl up and hide, another wants to go out and meet life with both fists. I think there’s a third part, too, a part I have difficulty feeling, emotioning me that the thing to do is not do. Detach. Move aside. Let go. I think I’ll do that . . . . let go. Not do. Now.
Last night I had a dream more real than reality itself. In my dream I dreampt I was having a dream more real than reality itself. I woke from it to find myself in apparent reality. But as I began to relax, I realized with horror I was in yet another dream. Panic-stricken I turned to run god-knows-where , when the thought came to me “Oh hell, if it’s a dream just let it go.” I woke to find myself hovering, even in apparent reality, between dream and reality. It was than I realized that only by totally releasing my directing hold on my mind would I ever escape the illusion. Like the peeled=back layer of an onion the dream vanished and I awoke in a heavy, leaden reality in which I felt oppressed and tired. Better a thousand times such a reality, than the reality of illusion.
The worst thing that can happen to a writer is that his work will become required reading in a high-school English course. This automatically guarantees immediate fame and total anonymity. Everyone will know his name; no one will read his books.
Youth is fabulous, spontaneous, generous, but not all of life. In aging we lose physical youth but gain, if we are lucky, a few compensations. One of these is the ability to appreciate a poem or a wine that youth is unable to tolerate or even understand. Some poetry, like good wine, is best left to age. The palate of youth is soft, sensitive, used only to sweets. The palate of age is duller, perhaps . . . drier, but much more used to savoring. Or perhaps it’s just that, as youth would way, we’re satisfied with less. No matter. I still love sweet sauterne and Rupert Brooke; and chuckle as I read my Auden, and drink my Pouilly Fuisse.
like a comet through the Dark Ages
vanished round the rim of the world…
left three lives in its trail…
questions scattered like dust
in the wake of its passing
answers to some best left unasked.
Now I know love leaves you open,
waiting, bared for the wound.
Nothing gained without giving
yes, that’s the way of it.
I understand less than I ever did
but had the sense to quit asking.
Questioning’s an endless noughts and crosses,
the game that never ends…
the thing’s to feel
grasp the nettle, forget the pain
Move Closer To The Flame.