[b]John Fowles from The Magus
But he was absolutely alone. No one ever wrote to him. Visited him. Totally alone. And I believe the happiest man I have ever met.[/b]
That makes at least two of us.
Because they died, we know we still live. Because a star explodes and a thousand worlds like ours die, we know this world is. That is the smile: that what might not be, is.
In other words, that Buddha bullshit.
There comes a time in each life like a point of fulcrum. At that time you must accept yourself. It is not any more what you will become. It is what you are and always will be.
For most of course it’s the day they die.
In our age it is not sex that raises its ugly head, but love.
And then, right around the corner, hate.
It was not the mask I was afraid of…but of what lay behind the mask. The eternal source of all fear, all horror, all real evil, man himself.
But mostly, some will insist, women. Here for example.
The thing I felt most clearly, when the first corner was turned, was that I had escaped. Obscurer, but no less strong, was the feeling that she loved me more than I loved her, and that consequently I had in some indefinable way won.
Remember when this was only a man thing?