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Array
(
[sid] => 50514
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Is This the Great Denouement So Long Sought?
[time] => 2004-06-05 09:48:24
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => Philosopher: Is this the great denouement so long sought? Is this then the great denouement my thoughts have been drawn to like seconds to an hour? Is this a proper period? Is this a suitable end? Is this the end? If it be so, I ne’er before read everything prior with such great assiduity, (grasping it fragmentarily like a great abstruse work,) that ended with such an end, That ended with such a devious bend, as to throttle me in complacency sleep-like, And send me violently back to the beginning again. Skeptic: Some end! Yet end truly it is not if there be latent incipience in it; If there be anything perennial about it; If there be anything worldly supporting it; If it has anything to do with winter or spring. Philosopher: But hearken to me, skeptic! see if you can not find something of the absolute in my deductions: Grant you that second is bound to second by infallible fraternity? Yes. Grant you that the art inspiring edifices of the heavens float on these seconds – their intellectual ether? Yes. Grant you that man, receiving his cues and cuts from these seconds, Existing as he does by their indifferent patronage alone, Sees, feels, hears, tastes that only which his audience furnishes him? Yes. Grant you then that his intellections, yours, mine; that more than these, that all; I say, sir, grant you that all can fly so far only as a second’s space? That though we strive might and main or tooth and nail, We advance ne’er more than at a second’s pace? That birds of all sorts and swift breezes too, seeming to enjoy freedom more bounteous, Are yet as trammeled, as frustrated, as hopeless, as doomed as us? No, sir, it does not necessarily follow thus. Skeptic: Sir, follow close behind! Step but from out this constructed comfort, pathetic and uncomfortable (so far as comforts go) – Step but from out this apish bounder-up of breath and view, And out into the incomparable poem of nature: Compose yourself a little verse by which to recall it, Or merely glut yourself and have it versify you; I am indifferent – But follow close behind! Feel that warmth, that before touching your skin, touches you passionately? Feel that succoring breeze, that before it cools your malleable skin, tempers your thoughts? Oh! see that rambling cur there? Over there! under yonder swaying trees, and dallying inconstant, dancing rays of light – Do you see, I say, how that cur seems to play with them himself and they with it, and yet to be let alone? Inquire you not as to what has caused him purposely to fly as he does under trees and so near a swift river? Ah! and there away off, I hear the prattling of an infant! I hear the screaming of an infant! – new born, perhaps. What form of eloquence does that incipient human not comprehend! So much in so little, and so little in so much! Tell me, sir, what seconds occasioned these few mysterious moments? (There are so many more.) Sir, tell me if you can, what manner of second will to these grant time? Sir, you are silent. Sir, you are confounded. Sir, perhaps the tumult of this fine day has exploded your train of thought. Sir, I daresay you have been confuted by the gentle influence of the sun. And by the timid and tempering caress of a mere breeze! And also by a dumb beast! And by a man of the very least! [comments] => 1 [counter] => 169 [topic] => 43 [informant] => LuciusASeneca [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 15 [ratings] => 3 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => oops )
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