"What is the meaning of it, Watson?" said Holmes, solemnly, as he laid down the paper. "What object is served by this circle of misery and violence and fear? It must tend to some end, or else our universe is ruled by chance, which is unthinkable. But what end? There is the great standing perennial problem to which human reason is as far from an answer as ever."
---Holmes.
~~~
It's hard to read a poem about the desert or a flower in the desert. One should rather say: this particular desert, this specific tulip. Now! There is no room left in the heart for eternal forms, only for glimpses and fragments. Why these clouds? And why not?
~~~
You woke. Or you were in a dream. A field of bright yellow wheat, head-high, vivified by light from inner green. She withdrew to a point, drew a black veil around herself, and it was like the last strands of a late summer light fluttering in an autumn morning. She said something and the world curved around her, framing both of us, as if in a painting, until there was only green and gold. What sweet prison was this that held us without us being held? Bound and free, lost and found.
It was the giving up of all feelings, all inner reservations...the letting go of a point at which one would hold fast no matter what, that changed prisoner into muslim.
---b.b.
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