A hot Harmattan wind has passed through Maine. Days and nights of heat have turned to history, remembered in glands and sweat and some one, somewhere, naked on a bed.
Dear Reader, I am writing to you, a Welshman in drab underwear, out of skepticism, sensualism, sentimentalism, hollow Michiavelism.
Dear Reader, who looks earnestly through phantasmagory and a state of frenzy to the courts of wild justice, now is the time to shout, “Temptations in the Wilderness.”
Our life is rounded with necessity and voluntary force of habit. And every last one of us knows the 3 Ds: Disappointment, Denial, Doubt.
Although I have been known to dream of a 36D going from Chichester to Dumfries.
Together now, as in a chorus of paper bags: Disappointment…Denial…Doubt….
And, yet, “the fraction of Life can be increased in value not so much by increasing your Numerator as by lessening your Denominator.”
Ask yourself, what’s all this fretting, fuming, lamenting, and self-tormenting about?
Think, man, think!
Ah, yes, the everlasting yea! Can you buy it at the corner shop?
It’s my opinion, said Mr. Sartor Resartus, that the “Thou” is not sufficiently honoured, nourished, soft-bedded, and lovingly cared for.
But where will I find such a lovely Thou?
In the stupendous section of Aisle 5 right next to the box of firelighters.
Produce! More Produce!
Nay, I want to Produce a thing of beauty.
Do the duty which lies nearest thee.
Right, I will. Thanks for that. Because I live not on morality, but a cookery of capability and performance.
Ha! Every one needs to learn the folly of that precept Know Thyself is really Know What Thou Canst Work At.
Now, there’s that Thou again. It’s like a damn Ideopraxist: in the idea he lived, moved, and did a jig.
— At this point an Editor would like to make an appearance and advise a principle of caution. And if I were you, Dear Reader, and sometimes I am, when I read other blogs and books, I’d listen to the Editor, he always has the last word.
Here’s some Style Council.