[b]Edgar Allan Poe
For all we live to know is known.[/b]
Possibly excepting all that we don’t.
There are two bodies — the rudimental and the complete; corresponding with the two conditions of the worm and the butterfly. What we call “death,” is but the painful metamorphosis. Our present incarnation is progressive, preparatory, temporary. Our future is perfected, ultimate, immortal. The ultimate life is the full design.
Now all that’s left is to prove it.
…but it is a trait in the perversity of human nature to reject the obvious and the ready, for the far-distant and equivocal.
If only for all practical purposes.
I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief --oh, no! --it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well.
Anyone here have it on tape?
It was well said of a certain German book that er lasst sich nicht lesen—it does not permit itself to be read.
“Sprechen sie deutsch, baby?”
Ah, Death, the spectre which sate at all feasts! How often, Monos, did we lose ourselves in speculations upon its nature! How mysteriously did it act as a check to human bliss — saying unto it "thus far, and no farther!”
Well, that’s what it would probably say no doubt.