The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.
Friday, October 18, 2013
Orpheus
Orpheus can never look back at the real woman trailing behind him out of hell,
the woman that anybody could see with ordinary eyes. Orpheus must keep
his eyes firmly fixed on the imaginal Eurydice before him, towards whom
he has struggled all his life. She is not imaginary, not at all, but
realer than any mere apparency, than any momentary act of seeing. He
must move always towards that perfect image of his wife, and so sustain
himself and his song. If ever he turns back, that is, regresses into
seeing his wife as an ordinary woman, she is lost. And he is lost.
--Robert Kelly
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