"The alternating viewpoint with which one is permitted to look at epic - the trompe-l'œil patterning - trains the mind and eye for the reintegration of the apparent opposites of action and contemplation. It works like a perspective picture of the interchanging patterns of figure and ground. We can neither stay with the story nor rest in the pattern; the story is not only an account of progress toward a goal, nor is the pattern a static rendering of experience. The story undercuts the value of action; the pattern is made up of unceasing motion. The ideal life of man, in which action and thought, body and soul, are integral with one another, is being restored, or achieved, by the demand that the poem makes upon the reader. As with immortality, by giving up the false contemplation represented by the Bower of Bliss, man learns true contemplation by immersing himself in the active pattern of life."
Milton and His Epic Tradition, Joan Malory Webber, University of Washington Press, 1979, Part II, "The Tradition," Page 93 - 94
Everyone feels loneliness; more than anyone may imagine.
And the only cure for loneliness is to know thyself.
To know oneself were to know one's whole flesh and blood.
Age sweet Age that counts away the thunder of the years
I know things from listening to my flesh and blood. You can only use your mind as well as you speak on behalf of the actual experience of your flesh and blood. My words are plain enough to hear. And they stand on the authority of my ancestors. Those who can listen will hear them. Enlightenment is overrated. But it is better than gold or silver - its cost are always going up. Good luck. For a Druid, two things are punishable by death: cutting down a Tree without permission... and lying. If it were a crime to lie to a child there would be no poverty, poverty whose crimes no number of other laws will ever solve but for the blind and demoralized servants of Death, of Christ the son of Saturn who produces and consumes all his illegitimate children with his seminal laws.
There lives a twinkle in the sky the smile of my mind
Whose elocution of myself in bonds of flesh and blood
Celestial biology of growth that knows the kind
Of richness lives in transformation vital as the Sun
Hereditary madness in the sadness of the Earth's
Contractions all the currents of our flesh and blood redoubts
Which hath some little influence upon all of the Words
That hath survived like earth and sky the bosun screams and shouts
And shrieks unholy spoken only just before they set
Into the flesh and blood the Sun the Mind of Man a sleep
Which undertakes to keep the quiet of the Moon the debt
Of too much death upon the Mind and all that Mind will creep
Into the knowledge in our blood our voices stories that will hold
Over the flesh and blood of Man a death in debt untold.
Psalms of Love