Ah, the dear old days when a thousand or ten thousand things didnt interrupt friendship, and when you didnt have to get down on your hands and knees and belly and crawl through a mile of barbed wire entanglements to enjoy a little while of friendly companionship! If such is life, damn life anyway. Free from practical considerations and opinion, damned intriguer gray with guile, one could enjoy the real essence of youth until he died, even if he lived to be a hundred. As it is, life is merely a process of encrustation. We get loaded down, encased, sealed inside an accretion of skeletons of things that die upon us and stick there and form a surface for other things with adhesive remains to die upon. So the Soul, which Plato talks about, instead of enjoying a larger freedom with advancing years and rising into realms of richer experience, building more stately mansions, is cabined, cribbed, confined in the tight and shrinking center of a conglomerate of skeletal remains. --Roy Bedicheck, letter to John A. Lomax, August 16, 1931
Posted on: Sat, 13 Sep 2014 19:51:52 +0000
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