The Man With The Beautiful Eyes -- Bukowski
when we were kids
there was a strange house
all the shades were always drawn
and we never heard voices in there
and the yard was full of bamboo
and we liked to play in the bamboo
pretend we were Tarzan
(although there was noJane).
and there was a fish pond
a large one full of the fattest goldfish you ever saw
and they were tame.
they came to the surface of the water
and took pieces of bread from our hands.
our parents had told us:
“never go near that house.”
so, of course, we went.
we wondered if anybody lived there.
weeks went by and we never saw anybody.
then one day we heard a voice from the house
“YOU GOD DAMNED WHORE!”
it was a man’s voice.
then the screen door of the house was flung open
and the man walked out.
he was holding a fifth of whiskey in his right hand.
he was about 30.
he had a cigar in his mouth,
needed a shave.
his hair was wild and uncombed
and he was barefoot
in undershirt and pants.
but his eyes were bright.
they blazed with brightness
and he said, “hey, little gentlemen, having a good time, I hope?”
then he gave a little laugh
and walked back into the house.
we left,
went back to my parents’ yard
and thought about it.
our parents, we decided,
had wanted us to stay away from there
because they never wanted us to see a man like that,
a strong natural man with beautiful eyes.
our parents were ashamed that they were not like that man,
that’s why they wanted us to stay away.
but we went back to that house
and the bamboo
and the tame goldfish.
we went back many times
for many weeks
but we never saw
or heard the man again.
the shades were down as always
and it was quiet.
then one day
as we came back from school
we saw the house.
it had burned down,
there was nothing left,
just a smoldering twisted black foundation
and we went to the fish pond
and there was no water in it
and the fat orange goldfish were dead there,
drying out.
we went back to my parents’ yard and talked about it
and decided that our parents had burned their house down,
had killed them
had killed the goldfish
because it was all too beautiful,
even the bamboo forest had burned.
they had been afraid of the man with the beautiful eyes.
and we were afraid then
that all throughout our lives
things like that would happen,
that nobody wanted anybody to be strong and beautiful like that,
that others would never allow it,
and that many people
would have to die.
The Genius of the Crowd -- Bukowski
there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the average
human being to supply any given army on any given day
and the best at murder are those who preach against it
and the best at hate are those who preach love
and the best at war finally are those who preach peace
those who preach god, need god
those who preach peace do not have peace
those who preach peace do not have love
beware the preachers
beware the knowers
beware those who are always reading books
beware those who either detest poverty
or are proud of it
beware those quick to praise
for they need praise in return
beware those who are quick to censor
they are afraid of what they do not know
beware those who seek constant crowds for
they are nothing alone
beware the average man the average woman
beware their love, their love is average
seeks average
but there is genius in their hatred
there is enough genius in their hatred to kill you
to kill anybody
not wanting solitude
not understanding solitude
they will attempt to destroy anything
that differs from their own
not being able to create art
they will not understand art
they will consider their failure as creators
only as a failure of the world
not being able to love fully
they will believe your love incomplete
and then they will hate you
and their hatred will be perfect
like a shining diamond
like a knife
like a mountain
like a tiger
like hemlock
their finest art
William Faulkner
I give you the mausoleum of all hope and desire.
I give it to you not that you may remember time,
but that you might forget it now and again
and not spend all of your breath trying to conquer it.
Because no battle is ever one, he said. They are not even fought
The field only reveals to man his own folly and despair,
and victory is an illusion of philosophers and fools.
The Chains Of Self Reflection -- Snippet from Journey to Ixtlan
What distinguishes normal people is that we share a metaphorical dagger;
the concerns of our self-reflection.
With this dagger, we cut ourselves and bleed;
and the job of our chains of self-reflection is to give us the feeling that we are bleeding together,
that we are sharing something wonderful; our humanity.
But if we were to examine it, we would discover that we are bleeding alone;
that we are not sharing anything;
that all we are doing is toying with our manageable, unreal, man-made reflection.
Seers are no longer in the world of daily affairs, because they are no longer prey to their self."
Vladimir Nobokov
The cradle rocks above an abyss
and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness
Man, as a rule, views the prenatal abyss with more calm that the one he is heading for,
at some 4200 heartbeats per hour.