"The poem is the dream made flesh, in a two-fold sense: as work of art, and as life itself, which is a work of art. When man becomes fully conscious of his powers, his role, his destiny, he is an artist and he ceases his struggle with reality. He becomes a traitor to the human race. He creates war because he has become permanently out of step with the rest of humanity. He sits on the doorstep of his mother's womb with his race memories and his incestuous longings and he refuses to budge. He lives out his dream of Paradise. He transmutes his real experience of life into spiritual equations. He scorns the ordinary alphabet which yields at most only a grammar of thought, and adopts the symbol, the metaphor, the ideograph. He writes Chinese. He creates an impossible wold out of an incomprehensible language, a lie that enchants and enslaves men."
3 jan 1937 from henry miller to lawrence durrell,
apparently from a book miller writes on d.h. lawrence
that's kind of how things are these days. sunlight on freshly shaven face and the jaw still sore from the force of the cheap razor. we had an action of safai last night and ill write about it with an update but for now to report that after Mango Week, during which erik and i only ate raw food and listen to live music, im back onto the beans and rice and corn and chiles and mexico is filling me with enthusiam for the world of the wikis and creating a mandala of love and starting an illiterary magazine and all the other deliria and debrayes. rest assured.
looks like monsoon hotel is coming out in a couple of works and we're working with the website designers to have the technical background up in time. look out for a cd release part on flag day. as it should be.
* ankurbhai *