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Monday, September 01, 2008

'I only know what it is that's wrong with him; not why it is.'
'And what is it?' asked Lucy fearfully, expecting some harrowing tale.
'The old trouble: thing's won't fit.'
'What things?'
'The things of the universe. It is quite true. They don't.'
'Oh, Mr Emerson, what ever do you mean?'
In his ordinary voice, so that she scarcely realized he was quoting poetry, he said:

'From far, from eve and morning
And yon twelve-winded sky,
The stuff of life to knit me
Blew hither: here am I.

George and I both know this, but why does it distress him? We know that we come from the winds, and that we shall return to them; that all life is perhaps a knot, a tangle, a blemish in the eternal smoothness. But why should this make us unhappy? Let us rather love one another, and work and rejoice. i don't believe in this world-sorrow.'
Miss Honeychurch assented.
'Then make my boy think like us. Make him realize that by the side of this everlasting Why there is a Yes- a transitory Yes if you like, but a Yes.'
Suddenly she laughed; surely one ought to laugh. A young man melancholy because the universe wouldn't fit, because life was a tangle or a wind, or a Yes or something!
- an excerpt from 'A Room with a View' by E.M. Forster

Surely it's not that silly to feel at least melancholy over this absurdity? If through this melancholy, and the five stages of grief, we find acceptance for the foibles of the human condition and the bleak state of the world, surely this absurdity is worth our melancholy?

she's not here @

5:46 PM