The last flower is gone, but somewhere its seed remains, and when the seed is gone, its flower will remain. I suppose nothing is whole unto itself. We are all just vehicles, and life moves through us.
“Blurtseau Lundif – Corsaire Extraordinaire” (XII)
“Another day,” thought Blurtseau, “and another night. The king is dead, and those who killed the king are dead, and Napoleon consolidates his power while those who would kill him wait in the wings. And the once-full moon that illuminated my vainglorious victory now wanes with a warbling light. Tomorrow the fighting will begin anew, the British, French, Spanish, Dutch, German, Italian, Sardinian, Greek generals… and all the world spins with the bones of the living and the bones of the dead, so many dead, those who pursued a borrowed or inherited dream, white bones in the soil, white bones in the surf of the sea, bones as white as the flickering tail of the waning moon, sparking and submerging among the breakers, flickering water reflection of fleeting sun echoed upon half-eaten moon, half-eaten moon half-eclipsed by the globe it now reflects down upon… half-eaten glow that grows dimmer each day… until the moon, the day, the night, and all our blood-urgent exploits fall dark upon the darkness of the sea, and vanish in the low laving sound of the waves eating the rocks with their dance of disintegration.
“And when the moon goes black, the stars will mark my path to Montecristo where Echo, alone on her island, watches the same silver flicker on a different surface of the same sea. And the light that flickered in her heart? Has it fallen prey to the same dance of deterioration? Will I find the moon already extinguished in the sea of her breast? Eclipsed by the vainglorious sphere that was my haste to depart? The misguided course of this star-crossed corsaire pursuing a sinking star? Yesterday’s hero is the dark side of the earth facing the dark side of the moon, is darkness double, two-faced night’s faceless faces, an echo of existence which touches no ear, a shout across an infinite expanse, an unreciprocated smile, a source without destination, a word from the heart that never arrives.”
“My heart is an echo of the disintegration
of the heart of the universe
that penetrates and disintegrates my own heart.”
“Blurtso looks at the snow” (XI)
“Blurtso looks at the snow” (I)
I wonder how long it will snow? I wonder how much it is snowing in the mountains? I wonder if there is ice on the stream or if the snow is falling on the water? Snowflakes don’t last very long in the water. Unless there is a rock. Then the snowflakes can land on the rock. I wonder if snowflakes look for rocks in the stream? If I were a snowflake, I would look for a rock in the stream. It would be very sad if I were a snowflake on a rock, to watch all the other snowflakes land in the water. I think I would prefer to land in the water. Then I could be happy for all the snowflakes that landed on rocks.