In his whimsical autobiography, H.G. Wells – detailing his family’s history – claims that his father, while in service as a gardener, stood model for the sneaking youth in the painting The Maid and the Magpie by Sir Edwin Landseer.
will the momentum of puberty’s paroxysms suffice to persist in the investigation? and truth and wisdom – arbitrary, spacious, elusive and implacable? is there consolation? how to endure the tears from the stinging light, the tears of epiphany…the bliss of grasping, even for a moment, a meaning, or an idea, but not consciously, but with the soul and mind and senses.
truth demanded many lives, of men worthier than i. and with my social suicide I join them, if only thus – still meek and doubting, fearful and selfish, still glancing back nostalgically, at the other life – so snug, so peaceful. and so false.
mystery. magic. puzzles – riddles. secrets. arcane or prosaic. like the horizon: blue-sky, taunting and intimidating. the unknown. the unknowable, yet explained and evident. although I understand, I nonetheless acknowledge its deceitful existence – there it is, I see it and how, then, I ask increduously, can it be a concept, just an idea and not a thing – this, that I see. imperceptibly moving forward, like time – it too, just a figment.
or love. like horizon’s edge, endlessly stretched (like giacometti’s limb) between me and that life, the mirage is measured into existence, as a formula, or seized by a stanza: there – you point at it – there, can you not see it? can you not believe in it? and then, reason, with a slightly raised eyebrow, strokes my childish head with its pitiless palm and says: no, dear child, it is only an illusion.