To Confront A Person With Their Own

In All Earnestness I Asked Myself What Kind Of World I Had Stumbled Into.

The Unconscious Is Not Just Evil By Nature, It Is Also The Source Of The Highest Good: Not Only Dark But Also Light, Not Only Bestial, Semihuman, And Demonic But Superhuman, Spiritual, And, In The Classical Sense Of The Word, "divine."

Nothing Is More Repulsive Than A Furtively Prurient Spirituality; It Is Just As Unsavoury As Gross Sensuality.

Life Has Always Seemed To Me Like A Plant That Lives On Its Rhizome. Its True Life Is Invisible, Hidden In The Rhizome. The Part That Appears Above Ground Lasts Only A Single Summer. Then It Withers Away—an Ephemeral Apparition. When We Think Of The Unending Growth And Decay Of Life And Civilizations, We Cannot Escape The Impression Of Absolute Nullity. Yet I Have Never Lost A Sense Of Something That Lives And Endures Underneath The Eternal Flux. What We See Is The Blossom, Which Passes. The Rhizome Remains.

Life Is A Luminous Pause Between Two Mysteries That Are Yet One.