And all of this enormous and eternal,
guaranteed for ever and having God’s lofty stature,
there in the sad,
drowsy depths of the ultimate reality of Things.
Music soothes,
the visual arts exhilarate,
and the performing arts.
Occultists say.
I should have loved being loved.
It’s a feeling of desolation I’m unable to pinpoint,
a shipwreck of my entire soul.
Another man,
convinced that everything is hollow and empty,
will feel like he’s been struck by lightning
when he learns that what he writes is considered worthless
or that his efforts to educate people are in vain,
or that it’s impossible to communicate his emotion.
He surely had no special aim,
but at least he had impatience.
It was nothing,
for the door shut immediately.
Bowers,
trees in quincunxes,
artificial grottoes,
sculpted flower beds,
fountains,
all the art that survives from the
dead masters whose dissatisfaction duelled with the visible
and they authored whole processions of things made for
dreams along the narrow streets of the ancient villages of sensations.